


Easy As Pie

by MapleleafCameo



Series: Demons and Pies [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Baking, Bullying, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Hockey, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Humor, M/M, Magical Realism, Magically Appearing Pies, Panic Attacks, SPOILERS IN THE COMMENTS, Skating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-05-28 15:22:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6334195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/pseuds/MapleleafCameo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard enough to have a crush on your team captain without pies magically appearing every time you speak to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Best Things In Life Are Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this story comes from the day Bitty and the other frogs were given the tour of the Haus. Bitty says, “Sometimes when I’m in kitchens, I just. Pies appear.” I thought well what if they did:D So this popped into my head.
> 
> Disclaimer: These wonderful characters belong to [Ngozi](http://ngoziu.tumblr.com) from the webcomic [Check, Please!](http://omgcheckplease.tumblr.com)

The day Eric Richard Bittle was born was the day his father discovered Eric wasn’t like the other boy babies in the maternity ward. He wasn’t like the girl babies either, truth be told, but Eric Sr. didn’t want that particular comparison to occur to anyone.

 

Eric Sr. handed out cigars, clapped other waiting fathers on the shoulder, phoned both sets of parents and practically went up to the rooftop of the hospital to shout out that he had fathered a male child. Into the hospital gift shop he went and scoured the overpriced baby clothes until he found a onesie that said, “Born to Play Football With my Daddy” and another that read “Future Draft Pick.” Both in blue of course. He ran back into the room where Suzie and Little Eric were snuggled together. Suzie looked tired, but she was so happy, she practically glowed. There were several bouquets of flowers already in the room and a balloon tied to a stuffed bear that said Congratulations.

 

Bending down to kiss his wife, he gently touched a finger to Little Eric’s cheek.

“Would you like to hold him?”

 

“Um, yes?”

 

Suzie laughed, and she carefully showed him how to hold his arms and cradle the fragile head, hold the neck just so. “He’s not a football, Eric,” she teased him.

 

“I know.” He smiled down at his boy. “He’s so little and so light. And,” he bent his head down to nuzzle his son’s head. “He smells so good, like cinnamon almost, or, he kind of smells like pie.” And he laughed because who ever heard of a baby smelling like pie?

 

Looking at Suzie, he saw she wasn’t laughing at the silliness of his statement. Her face was stricken, and there was a furtive tightness around her eyes.

 

“Did you say pie?”

 

"Yes, but honestly Suze, he really…what’s the matter?”

 

Suzie stood up slowly from the bed and walked over to the hospital bassinet. She reached in and pulled out a tiny fresh apple mini pie. It looked like it had just come out of the oven and the mouthwatering aroma of baked goods intensified.

 

Eric walked over to Suzie. “Seems like an odd thing to leave in a baby basket. Is it something they do in this hospital? Like a welcoming gift?”

 

“No,” Suzie shook her head back and forth, looking more and more like she was going to cry. “No, it isn’t. Oh lord, Eric, I am so sorry. I should have warned you or something, but I honestly didn’t think. It’s been a long time…it’s just a stupid family legend. I didn’t think…”

 

“Shh, baby. What is it?” He’d honestly never seen his wife so rattled before over a baked good. Perhaps it was those hormones some of his friends had warned him about. ‘Don’t upset her after the baby’s born. And any little thing is gonna to set her off.’

 

“I think you’d better sit down.”

 

After she had finished explaining, Eric didn’t want to hold the baby anymore. He passed Little Eric to her and sat in the chair rubbing at his face. “We can’t…I don’t even…how do we…?”

 

“It’s okay. We’ll figure something out.”

 

“But Suzie, what will people say? How do we explain when cookies and pies and, and, things, start popping up everywhere?”

 

She sighed and patted his arm. Her family had been far more progressive when it came to gender roles than his, but it didn’t make this any easier. “People believe what they want to believe. Until he’s older we’ll just let everyone assume I have a new thing for baking. And then when he is old enough, I’ll teach him how to bake. You’ll see, it will be all right.”

 

“But baking? Seriously? People are going to, they’re going to think…”

 

“What? You are not going to start a fight with me right here and now about how people are going to think your son is gay just because he can bake pies are you? Because we will not even bring into it how many men are chefs. Your son can be what he wants to be and do what he wants to do, Eric. We are not going to label him because he happens to have an extra gift. And so what if he does turn out to be gay? It is no reflection on your manhood, you know.”

 

He wasn’t so sure about that. He was pretty sure he’s been taught that being gay was a sin. There wasn’t much in the Bible about magically appearing pies, unless you read the part about witchcraft, which he was pretty sure his parents would bring up if they knew.

 

Over the next few weeks, as he came to love his son more each day, he decided that Suzie was right. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that Little Eric was loved and nurtured and cared for. They did not tell a soul about his gift, not even Suzie’s parents. Suzie started baking soon after she was home and always made sure they had cake or cookies, but especially apple mini pies on hand, because those were the ones that showed up the most often when Eric was happiest.

 

On days she baked she would chatter away to Little Eric. When he started to babble and coo, she took to calling him Dicky, because, as she said to him, “y’all sound just like the cutest little Dicky bird, singing away to your Mama” and as she said to Eric Sr. it helped distinguish which one of them she was mad at.

 

For the most part, things were good. Suzie was right when she said people believed what they wanted and saw what they wanted. Folks commented on how much baking she did, but it was an accepted part of Southern hospitality to feed people to bursting, so there wasn’t much teasing. If a pie appeared on the counter of her in-laws or at the local Mommy and Me play date, no one commented. Her parents suspected, but thought it best to let things go unsaid. Always better to ignore things that can’t be changed.

 

Occasionally Eric Sr. would come home from his coaching job and there would be the lingering smell of burnt baking permeating the air. On those days, he knew something had happened to make Dicky cry. Teething was particularly memorable as tiny undercooked soufflés kept popping into the sitting room. His only comment to Suzie was that it was nice to see Dicky branch out.

 

But everything was good. He had a healthy baby boy; he had a wife who loved them both, and he had a job that helped keep his waist trim when he overindulged on Dicky’s mini bite brownies.

 

And then Dicky started school.

 


	2. Stressed is Desserts Spelled Backward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was bigger than I thought and most of it is back-story, but I wanted to include a lot of Eric’s growing up. It may mean that, depending on how the next chapter goes, I may add a fifth. Please note that some tags have been added. Thank you to mattsloved1 for looking this over.
> 
> The pastry recipe Suzanne teaches Eric at the beginning is actually pretty good & it is all there.
> 
> Lyrics from Déjà vu by Beyoncé and Jay-Z
> 
> Some words and phrases are from the Check! Please comic and belong to Ngozi

“Now tap the measuring cup a little, on the side. That’s it, not too hard. It helps settle the flour. Take the knife, yes, on the straight edge and while you hold the cup over the container of flour, run it across. There. Very good, Dicky! That gives you a level cup. Now put it in the bowl. And next, we’re going to measure out a quarter cup of flour and add it, so that we’ll have a cup and a quarter of flour.”

 

Eric stood on a backward-facing chair so he could reach the countertop. His tongue stuck out a bit as he concentrated. Today, he was learning how to make piecrust. Pies, both regular and mini, still seemed to be Eric’s go-to dessert of choice whenever he became excited or happy, so Suzanne thought that pie would probably be the best thing to learn first and to learn well. They’d move on to other things eventually.

 

Standing beside Eric, Suzanne beamed down at him and praised his progress. She tried hard not to be too enthusiastic because it’s never any good getting someone so full of themselves they became obnoxious about it, but also when he got too excited it would sometimes rain mini-pies and that made a mess. He was beginning to control it a bit better now, but goodness the boy was only three and a half, so naturally he contained a good deal of excitement in his little body.

 

Reaching for a childproof knife, she showed him how to cut up the half cup of chilled butter into cubes and add it to the flour. Placing the butter cutter in Eric’s hands, she put hers on top of his on the handle, and they cut in the butter together until it looked like coarse crumbs. She pulled the quarter cup of chilled water from the fridge and they added it bit by bit until the dough was a nice consistency and Eric helped shape it into a ball. Wrapping it in plastic wrap, she put it in the fridge to sit there for four hours.

 

Eric also helped clean up afterward by washing the dishes. He liked that part and sometimes got a little too enthusiastic with the splashing. Suzanne laughed at him when he slapped his hand down on the water, and soapsuds flew up on his face. If there were a few items that needed rewashing later, when she washed the dinner dishes, well, he didn’t need to know about it.

 

She dried his hands, kissed him on the nose and then took him outside to practice.

 

“Okay, baby, now, I want you to think about the kitchen. Close your eyes and imagine you’re in the kitchen. Have you got it?”

 

“Yes, Mama.”

 

“Okay. Now think about what kind of pie you want to make today. Once you get it in the kitchen, we’ll know what kind of filling we need to make for our other pie.”

 

Eric, eyes still closed, scrunched his nose a bit to think. “Pecan.”

 

“Pecan, that’s what you want today?”

 

“Yes, please, Mama.”

 

“All righty, sweetie. Are you thinking about yummy pecan pie?”

 

“Yes, Mama.”

 

“Is it sweet and hot, fresh out of the oven? With the crust all golden brown? And the pecans toasted just right?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Can you see it on the counter in the kitchen, by the fridge?”

 

“Yes?”

 

A faint noise caught their attention. Eric’s pies and cookies always appeared silently, but sometimes, like when they fell from the sky, they made noise hitting the ground.

 

Eric opened his eyes, and his bottom lip started to quiver. “I’m sorry, Mama.” The pie lay upside down on the ground near the back door.

 

“Now baby, you did just fine! See how much closer you are to the door this time? Don’t cry sweetie! Mama’s so proud of her Dicky-bird!” She walked to where the pie sat on the ground and turned it over. “Honey, look! You got the pie exactly right! Let’s try one more and see if you can get it in the kitchen this time.”

 

Suzanne prepared Eric to go out into the world the best way she knew how. The realization that most people would not understand Eric’s unique gift, that most people would either look at him and think he was evil or possessed by the Devil kept her up at night. Fear that they would look at him and see an opportunity to exploit him also made the rounds in her thoughts. So she spent a few hours every day working with him on visualizing what kind of dessert he wanted so he could control that aspect or on how to hide it so it wouldn’t always materialize near him or from out of the sky.

 

She also knew that if Eric were startled or frightened, things could sometimes go horribly wrong, so if he could have some control over his gift then the baked goods would be perfectly cooked and taste divine, not burnt or spoilt like sometimes happened when hurt or scared.

 

She also tried to teach him how to control where his baking would appear and knew that maybe someday, he wouldn’t have to explain why a shoe-fly pie sat on the bench beside him when they were trying on shoes or landing in the lap of the lady beside them at the movie theatre when they went to see Mulan. A bit burnt because Shan-yu had scared him a little, it still smelled good. Fortunately, the lady thought it had been someone in the back tossing pies. The resulting fuss had caused the movie theater to pause Mulan until the offending pie could be dealt with.

 

Preparing Eric to control his gift was no different than preparing him to look both ways or not to follow a stranger to help them find a lost puppy. For Eric, it became a survival mechanism.

 

For the most part, when Eric did start school, at least at the beginning, things went fairly well. A few odd incidents left the teachers shaking their heads, like the time the Kindergarten class put on an assembly about healthy eating and in his excitement to play the part of Grains, Eric caused little whole wheat muffins to materialize on the seats in the auditorium for all the other classes coming to see the play. The two Kindergarten teachers thought the principal had arranged it, and the principal had thought the teachers had, and only Eric and Suzanne knew what had happened. Teachers would ask for Eric in their classes, not only because of his pleasant and sunny disposition but because they were sure to get a big basket of spectacular desserts at Christmas.

 

In 2002, the year Eric would be turning seven, Salt Lake City, Utah hosted the Olympics, and he discovered figure skating. Suzanne had taken lessons as a child and always loved watching the skating during the Olympics. Eric would sit with her during all the competitions, and they would clap and cheer and refrigerator cookies would pop into the kitchen. When they watch the Exhibition performances at the end of the skating competition, and Michelle Kwan skated out to say her farewell to the crowd, Eric turned to Suzanne and declared he wanted to do that, too. Suzanne signed him up for lessons at a nearby rink, and Eric took to it easily. The coaches were happy to be the recipients of a nice cinnamon Bundt cake every skating practice.

 

Through all of this, Eric Sr. tried his best to do right by his family. He would take Eric for walks to the park to swing on the swings or over to watch practice always carrying a big basket he could scoop pies into if one mysteriously appeared. Eric took to calling his father Coach because everyone called his daddy Coach. Eric felt rather proud of him. At practice, the players would ruffle Eric’s hair and ask him when he was going to try out for football. At first, Eric would tell everyone in his quiet way that he wanted to be the quarterback, but after he had started skating, the players stopped asking him. Coach tried to teach Eric to play football, but Eric’s heart wasn’t in it. He just wanted to skate. To please his father, he joined the junior peewee football team. In his enthusiasm for finally getting to interact with Eric, Coach forgot the boys were not high school students. After his first tackle and the player from the other team had sat on his chest, Eric curled up in a ball, scared to death and crying. Suzanne ran out onto the field and scooped him up. She carried him back to the stands, dried his tears, and ignored the exclamations of folks around them as someone pelted them with burnt sugar cookies in the shape of footballs.

 

“Shh, baby. I’ve got you. Shh. See if you can stop the cookies now, okay?”

 

Suzanne talked to Coach and Coach stopped asking Eric to play catch. Feeling bad about not spending time with Coach, Eric began to help his father and tidied the equipment shed. He now called Eric Sr., Coach pretty much all the time.

 

Coach felt disappointment seeping through his veins when he saw his dreams of Eric taking after him, or maybe doing better, a scholarship for college football slipping away. It became clearer with Eric’s build more like Suzanne. He tried not to be too bitter as he watched Eric and Suzanne become closer than ever. How could they not? Eric spent all of his time with his mother. She had taught him to bake to cover up his gift. She took him to skating lessons and helped sew costumes for the club during exhibitions or competitions. They had private jokes and understood each other so much more. Coach didn't get the skating and the sequined outfits, and although he understood the extra baking, he didn’t see why Eric liked it so much. Coach loved Eric and certainly Eric loved Coach but the more they tried to connect, the more they reached out to one another, the more they missed. Neither understood the other and both being stubborn, neither tried.

 

Late at night, after Eric slept, Coach tried to express his fears to Suzanne, but emoting didn’t come easily.

 

“Suzie?”

 

“Hmmm?” she said, sewing another costume for Eric.

 

“Don’t you think Junior’s a bit…well…girly? I mean all the baking and the pies and” he waved his hand at the costume she worked on, “and sparkles.”

 

Suzanne lay her sewing on her lap to glare at her husband. “Eric Richard Bittle, Senior, don’t you dare label that boy! I have told you before that it doesn’t matter what Eric does or who Eric is, we will love and support him. The pies can’t be helped.” She looked thoughtful for a minute. “Actually, none of it can be. It’s in him, the skating and the dancing. He is a pure and joyous spirit and telling him not to do those things would just snuff out all that energy and love. You know baking is just chemistry, right? Well, think of it this way. Eric shines through with the baking. It’s an expression of his heart. He shows he loves someone or is afraid of something all the time, but the baking is the words he can’t say, and it shows up as a sign or as a gift. ‘Here is my heart. I hope you appreciate what I am offering you.’ Like a chemical reaction. Do you understand what I’m getting at?”

 

Not really, Coach thought. He didn’t bring it up again.

 

Around about the same time Coach and Eric were fumbling their relationship with one another, there came a day when how the male members of his school perceived Eric shifted.

 

He’d walk down the halls and find himself shoved up against lockers or tripped and his books and papers would be scattered. Catcalls and slurs were thrown at him as well as the occasional spitball. His lunch often ended up in the trash. He’d hide behind the stage in the auditorium and eat there, surrounded by raw shortbread.

 

If Eric’s father who loved him, even if he didn’t understand him, had trouble connecting with his son, then there would never be any hope for the school population in an area where boys were boys and boys did manly activities like football or hunting or fishing and skating and baking were looked at as ‘girly’.

 

At home, Suzanne would walk into a kitchen full of spoiled pies, all misshapen and smaller than usual and knew something was wrong. Eric seemed less, somehow.

 

Coach would see Eric coming home defeated and sad, but trying to put on a brave face. Crying made him uncomfortable and his son crying was somehow even worse. He tried to remember what Suzie had said, but he saw it as another sign that Eric needed to toughen up.

 

“Next time someone shoves you, boy, shove ‘em back.”

 

“Oh…well…I don’t think…”

 

“And that’s the problem, right there. You don’t think! These boys want you to show ‘em you ain’t afraid. That will get them to stop. They’re looking for a target, and you are giving it to them, Junior! Show them you're the boss!”

 

“But won’t I …I mean the school doesn’t want us fighting.” A sharp smell wafted through the sitting room, and Eric tried to subtly hide the burnt gingerbread cake that materialized by his side with an afghan, but Coach saw it and sighed.

 

The whole thing came to a head one Friday after school as Eric cleaned out the equipment shed. Although the days were still warm as summer bled into fall, it was becoming a bit cooler at night. The sun thought about heading off to bed as he tidied up various pieces of equipment before he returned home for supper. Some of the nastier minded members of the school’s football team found him singing at the top of his lungs. Some of them were the same boys who had been tripping him in the halls.

 

_Baby seems like everywhere I go_

_I see you, from your eyes, your smile_

_It's like I breathe you, helplessly I reminisce_

_Don't want to compare nobody to you_

_Boy, I try to catch myself_

_But I'm out of control_

_Your sexiness is so appealing_

_I can't let it go_

_Oh_

 

“Hey, Bittle!” The words were not friendly in tone. They were not shouted out in the hopes of catching up to Eric and spending the afternoon playing catch or at each other’s houses or down at the creek or any of a number of things boys do together.

 

The words were said with a sneer and a whole lot of disgust, the implication under them that the speaker was looking for an easy mark and Eric happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong times.

 

Hunching into his shoulders, he thought very hard about pleasant things. He concentrated on not letting pies appear.

 

“Bittle! I’m talking to you! What in the hell are you singing?” said Chris, the oldest, the biggest and the meanest.

 

Another of the boys snickered behind Chris. “Did y’all see him dancing? Hey Bittle, you a fag? I thought only fags danced like that.”                

                                                

The boys high-fived each other as they catcalled Eric. They thrilled at the illicit feel of that word in their mouths.

 

A cold, heavy lump settled in Eric’s stomach. Shoving and tripping him had been bad enough, but this had a harder, nastier edge to it.

 

“Y’all are gonna have to go now. I gotta lock up and get home for dinner,” Eric tried to speak in a firm voice, tried to make himself look bigger. Neither happened. His voice came out squeaky, and his size certainly didn’t increase.

 

“Gotta go home to your Mama? Going let her fight your fights for you? What, ‘cause your Daddy, he ain’t gonna do it. Your Daddy thinks you’re a waste of space. He thinks you are a useless piece of shit, Bittle. Can’t play football, you skate and dance and bake cookies for Gawd's sake. You really are a fag, aren’t you?”

 

“I ne..need to lock up, Chris. Y’all ne..need to leave.”

 

Chris lunged for him while Matt grabbed the keys from his hand. Eric started kicking and yelling, and Chris tried to cover his mouth. Eric bit him, and Chris shoved him to the ground of the shed.

 

“You little, fucker!”

 

Hitting his head on one of the shelves made it rock and a bunch of footballs, and other bits of equipment fell on top of him. By the time he untangled himself the shed doors had slammed shut. He jumped up and tried to open them, but the boys had slipped on the padlock.

 

Eric tried very hard not to panic. He banged on the door and yelled, but he could hear the edged laughter of the boys.

 

“Your gonna spend the night here, Bittle, teach you a lesson. Maybe we’ll come 'n let you out in the morning and maybe…Ow! What the hell?”

 

The rest of the boys began shouting. He could make out the occasional word. “Fuck!...blueberry…coming from?...it’s hot!”

 

Sadly, he couldn’t see the look on their faces when the fresh baked, bubbling hot blueberry pies smacked into the boys. Laughing at their predicament and how they were going to explain to their families, why blueberry pie covered them gave him a brief, warm thought in an increasingly chilly shed. He hoped Coach would show up and let him out of the shed, but too late he remembered his parents had plans for the evening. Mama had said if he was late coming back home not to worry if they weren’t there. They were going over to the Miller’s for a visit and would be home around nine.

 

“I can do this! It’s just for a few hours. They’ll find me.” He sat down on the floor but soon the cold seeped through his t-shirt and shorts. He decided to dance to keep warm and sing. Maybe if he sang someone would hear him.

 

He started back with Déjà vu and then went into other songs he liked. If he didn’t know all the words, he made them up. It must be getting later, and surely his folks would be there soon. The dark of the shed pressed into his eyes. Coach always used the field lights when putting equipment away after a game or a flashlight if he was in a hurry and there were no working lights.

 

Hunger gripped his stomach, and he thought about pie but for once nothing happened. He closed his eyes and pictured as clearly as he could a nice fresh baked apple mini-pie. It didn’t work. A flare of panic started in his gut. What if taking revenge on Chris and the others had somehow caused his gift to go away? Maybe throwing blueberry pies at a bunch of bullies was considered a waste.

 

He put his arms around his legs and tucked his head down. He tried hard not to be scared, but it became increasingly clear that no one was looking for him. Rocking back and forth, he continued to sing to himself to hold the panic at bay. Eventually, he drifted off into a light sleep.

 

Several hours later, startled out of his doze by a banging on the shed, he lifted his head.

 

“Junior? Junior are you in there?”

 

He tried to speak, but only croaked out a scratchy response. He felt around in the near dark, picked up a football, tossed it and it banged against the wall.

 

“Oh thank God!” A rattle of keys, the sound of the lock opening and with a screech, the shed doors swung back. A beam of light flared into the darkened room, and Eric held up a hand to block it.

 

“Eric! Are you all right? Tell me you’re okay?” Grabbing Eric by the arms, Coach lifted him up to his feet and felt him to make sure he wasn’t hurt. Satisfied there were no external injuries, he bundled up Eric in his jacket and led him to the pickup truck.

 

Eric felt his lower lip tremble and tried very hard not to cry. He knew it upset his father when he burst into tears, but he could see Coach furiously chewing away on his mustache.

 

“I’m sorry, Coach, I didn’t…”

 

Coach glanced at him and spoke in a tight voice. “What the hell are you sorry for, boy?”

 

“I didn’t…I tried to… I couldn’t…they grabbed me and threw me in. I…c…couldn’t get out,” his voice died down to a whisper. “I’m sorry for not fighting back.”

 

Eric peeked over at Coach. He could see the hands clenched on the steering wheel were white at the knuckle.

 

“Don’t you dare apologize for what they did to you. Do you hear me? It’s on them.”

 

“But you said…”

 

“Yeah, well maybe I was wrong.”

 

Not knowing how to respond to his father, Eric remained quiet for the rest of the ride.

 

Suzanne met them at the door, pulled Eric into her arms and took him into the house. She sat him at the table and brought him some soup and a glass of milk. Sinking into the dining room chair with a sigh, he tried hard not to wolf down his Mama’s good soup, but hunger came before manners. No one said much while he ate, but he could feel Coach and Mama eye each other over his head.

 

Scraping the bowl, he finally looked up at his Mama. Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. The words slipped out before he could help it.

 

“I’m sorry, Mama!”

 

“Oh, baby. This is not your fault!”

 

“How did you know where to find me?”

 

Coach, who had been silent through the whole exchange, chuckled.

 

“Well someone saw Jeff Naylor walking home covered in blueberry pie. And then someone said they’d seen that Chris Smith in a similar state. Word spreads quickly through town over something like that. We’d stopped at the gas station on the way home from the Miller’s and Kyle, the owner, told us. Then when we got home and saw you weren’t here, and the kitchen was…well, it didn’t take much to put together something happened.”

 

Eric looked puzzled. “The kitchen was what?”

 

Although an edge of worry still wrapped around Coach, he rolled his eyes a little and gestured toward the kitchen. “See for yourself.”

 

Eric stood up with his bowl and glass and walked to the kitchen, trailed by his parents. On every surface and every cleared space, an apple mini-pie sat. Every single one blackened and burnt. Surprised he couldn’t smell the stink until he got into the kitchen, he started to pick them up and place them in the trashcan. Mama and Coach came in to help.

 

The family decided not to press charges, but all of the boys involved were suspended from the football team. Coach started to look for a new job and found a position at the high school in Madison. He told Eric that this wasn’t running away, this was strategic withdrawal. No one was going to do that kind of shit to his boy ever again.

 

“Don’t tell your Mama I said shit.”

 

Finding a rink for skating wasn’t too hard, although they traveled a bit for it. Put in contact with a Russian skating coach who saw potential in Eric. Tough and demanding, Eric’s skating took off. Before long he racked up the medals. He found his love for skating grew and his ability to make his baking even tastier did too. But after competing in the Southern Junior Regionals and doing very well, he had to decide whether or not to pursue skating further. Katya told him to do that he’d have to leave home, and Eric didn’t see himself ready to do that just yet. He hated saying goodbye to Katya. After some major hinting and research, he visualized the perfect going away present and handed a plate full of pastila. A heavenly aroma lifted off of the small squares. For the first time, Eric actually saw Katya tear up.

 

‘These are just like my Babushka’s. How on earth did you know?”

 

Eric laughed, hugged her and said, “I have my sources.”

 

Still wanting to skate, Eric joined the coed hockey team. He found it interesting, learned a lot and his speed and size were unexpected assets. After three years of working his way up to Captain, he discovered that hockey could be every bit as satisfying as figure skating and they still let him do jumps between periods. The members of his team were fun to be around, and they appreciated his endless supply of baking, even if the coaches weren’t so sure about all the calories.

 

Coach was quietly pleased he appeared to be ‘manning up’, even though he didn’t understand hockey at all. Now he’d watch a game, more willing than he had been to see Eric figure skate, something that Eric found hurtful. Coach still didn’t understand a thing about him, indicated by the number of flattened lemon bars that showed up after Coach said something about finding himself a girlfriend on the team. Eric didn’t tell him the girls didn’t interest him, but a young hockey player named, Peter certainly did.

 

Tall, dark haired and funny, Peter became Eric’s first real crush. Hanging out together, they developed a mutually beneficial relationship. Eric got a lot of pining and Peter got peanut butter cookies. Peter had no idea that the reason he received batch after batch of peanut butter cookies had something to do with the way he smelled. Eric would look at Peter, smell his teenage musk and feel all warm and gooey.

 

At night, in bed, Eric would think about what it would be like to kiss Peter. He would close his eyes and picture Peter’s face. He would lean in and…

 

“Oh, gross!” He’d rolled over into a big, moist, pile of “Cookies! And they’re still warm! Sheesh!”

 

At the rink, he’d watch Peter warm up, flick the puck, skate past and he would sigh. Peter came off of the ice and sat beside Eric on the bench.

 

“Oh, here Peter, I umm, made these. Would you like some?”

 

“Man Bittle, how the hell do you get them to stay warm? Especially at the rink.”

 

“Oh it ain’t hard, I guess.”

 

Eric vowed after his fourteenth batch of cookies ended up in his bed and unsuccessfully tried to hide the stained sheets from his Mama, never to fall for a straight boy ever again.

 

When it came time to look for a place to go to school, Eric had three requirements. One, a hockey program where hopefully he could get a scholarship, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to afford the cost, two, at least, a few classes devoted to the art or history of baking, and three, an open minded college with a high tolerance for LGBT students.

 

Samwell in Massachusetts fit all three, although there wasn’t as much baking as Eric would have liked. They did have some interesting classes devoted to American culture, including cuisine. The population of LGBT was one in four, and there were many clubs, support groups and zero tolerance for any bullying.

 

Nervous, yet excited, he and Mama drove down at the start of pre-season hockey.

 

“Dicky, are you sure you want to be so far from home? It’s such a long way if something happens.”

 

“Mama, we have been over this. It will be fine! The only thing I need to do is see if I can find a place to bake. If I can do that, there shouldn’t be any problem.”

 

“What if you can’t? You can’t just send your baking to your room. Your roommate will get suspicious.”

 

“I’ve got better control. I’ll find someplace at first and once I know his schedule then I can just send it then. It will be fine,” he repeated.

 

He wasn’t worried. He’d been living with this his whole life.

 

A few days after arriving and getting to know the team, the team member with the unfortunate name took him and all the other freshmen hockey players on a tour of the Haus.

 

“Good morning, frogs! You the uninitiated of the Samwell Hockey Team have the distinct and unparalleled honor of entering, for the very first time, our humble abode: The Haus. The decisions you make in this house will be regretful but glorious. The alcohol you drink will be cheap but plentiful. And the loss of virginity you may experience within these walls will range from reassuring to emotionally damaging.”

 

Eric smiled, amused at the verbosity of the fellow, the third line winger, Shitty Knight. He followed Shitty into the Haus and wondered how he to explain this fellow’s name to his Mama.

 

All thoughts stopped however when he saw the kitchen. If it could be called that.

 

“I bet no one’s cooked anything but pot brownies in you, you poor thing.” He moved to the table where someone had left a bikini top. Oh God, he thought, and he carefully moved it off of the table and onto the back of a chair. “Well! Let’s see what you’ve got to work with.” He wasn’t very optimistic, but he searched through the cupboards. “They certainly aren’t in short supply of condiments.”

 

Mostly pleased, slightly disgusted, Eric thought that if he gave the kitchen a good scouring and tidying it up, it would certainly do. A warm, pleasant feeling coursed through him and for the first time since coming to Samwell, he had a genuine sense of well-being, so much so, that when he turned around, “Oh Lord! Why did you have to appear? How am I gonna explain this! There ain’t any baking supplies here.” With a quick look around he discovered a beat up and singed pair of oven mitts, and surprisingly, an apron that didn’t look too bad. The smell of the apple pie filled the kitchen, overwhelmed the scent of stale beer and wafted out into the hall. It wasn’t long before a small crowd appeared at the kitchen door.

 

Blushing, embarrassed by how close he had come to being discovered he turned, pie in hand and said, “Oh. Hi, everyone. Haha. Sometimes when I am in kitchens, I just…pies appear.”

 

The group of young men stood looking at Eric. He felt the flush of his lie burn brighter.

 

“Oh my God!” said Holster. At least, Eric thought it was Holster. He sometimes still got his and Ransom’s names mixed up. They were rather interchangeable. “You bake! Sweeet!”

 

Mobbed by most of the crowd, the pie quickly disappeared.

 

Shitty stood to one side, the only one confused by the appearance of the pie. “Wow. We’ve only been here five minutes.” He continued to look at Eric thoughtfully for the rest of the day.

 


	3. Nothing Says Home Like the Smell of Baking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to mattsloved1 for looking this over:)

“Fuck, yeah, Bitty! Nanaimo bars! How do you always know what everyone’s favourite desserts are?” Ransom high-fived Eric as he came into the kitchen.

 

“Oh, I just listen to y’all chat about home ‘n stuff and I’m sure I heard it mentioned once or twice.” Eric giggled nervously. It’s not like he could say how his gift seemed always to know what everyone needed the most. He didn’t quite know how that part worked. He supposed it had to be an intrinsic part of his makeup.

 

Shitty always got brownies, any kind, well except for pot brownies, because his gift didn’t seem to do that, which was just as well.

 

Holster liked any type of pie, but then who doesn’t?

“How the hell d’you get fresh raspberries out of season? I swear these are fresh raspberries. Bitty, I’m going to marry you!” Or some such comment after a pie would turn up on the countertop.

 

“Not if I marry him first!” yelled anyone who happened to be nearby.

 

Johnson always complimented the meringue on his lemon pies. “Lighter than air and barely there. Interesting dessert choice for me. I wondered what you would come up with. I find it fascinating to observe what you produce and how the recipes seem to match everyone’s personality. You will often find tropes about magic gifts and the way they help connect the protagonist to the love interest and to attract a suitable partner. Hilarity ensues, and there are misunderstandings and mutual pining without the other realizing it. Great fun, bro!” He slapped Eric on the back. “I’ll be interested in seeing what you’ll come up with for Jack.”

 

Eric nodded, sweating a bit because Johnson seemed to have an idea about something, but what that was he didn’t really know. Johnson just plain confused him. And he talked about Jack as if there could be something there. Jack, who hated him, Jack, who didn’t want him on the team, Jack, who made him nervous, Furious Jack, angry with him for fainting on the ice every time someone came close to checking him. Jack who didn’t know some of the things that had happened to him when he was younger.

 

Straight, no-homo-bro Jack.

 

Nothing showed up for Jack at first and one day it just did. Eric wondered if it was partly his Southern hospitality. His Mama had drilled into him that it didn’t matter how mean someone was to you or how much they might hate you, you always served them with a smile. Jack was basically a decent person, even if he sometimes had the personality of a wet blanket at a church picnic. In spite of it all, all the confusion of emotions and the bone-tiredness, the hiding and the misdirecting, without fail, desserts would appear that seemed to be just what Jack needed. Sometimes Eric didn’t even have a name for them. He spent time researching Québécois culture after and downloading recipes, so it looked like he knew what he was doing.

 

Jack would pause, look confused for a minute, say something like, “Too much sugar.” Or “It’s six in the morning.” Or “Do you need to be baking this time of night? Don’t you have a test? Should someone walk you back to your dorm?” But then he’d help himself to _beignet aux pommes_ or _tarte au sucre_.

 

If only he could do something about the one thing he couldn’t seem to control. Blacking out on the ice anytime someone came near him. Topped up by Jack freakin’ yelling at him, in front of the team! Told him in no uncertain terms that he did not belong.

 

“This isn’t a joke! Either get with the program or quit!”

 

From the way, his insides felt, Eric would not have been surprised to see burnt pie everywhere, little mounds of flaming apple mini pies, crushed like his heart. They didn’t show. Hmm, interesting.

 

Then Shitty told him some things, and Google told him some others. And Eric’s eyes were opened a bit.

 

“Bittle! How the hell did you get my _mémé’s_ recipe for _tourtière_? I didn’t know you did meat pies as well.”

 

“Well, I,” but Jack left with a big piece of the luscious looking pie filled to overflowing with beef, chicken and pork on a plate and a glass of milk. “I didn’t know either,” he whispered to the empty room.

 

Either way, things improved a bit. Jack, while not exactly warm towards him, stopped yelling. He got Eric out of bed in the early hours of the morning, at an ungodly time he hadn’t seen since his figure skating days, and helped him, practiced with him, toughened him up.

 

After one such morning, they came back to the locker room and sitting on the bench was half a dozen mini pies, Eric’s specialty, only this time…

 

“ _Merde_ , Bittle, these are really good. I like the maple sugar you’ve added on top. Nice touch, eh?” Jack left to talk with Couch Murray about next week’s road trip, mini pie in hand.

 

Eric looked at the remaining pies, picked one up, bit into it.

 

“Oh my goodness!”

 

The mini pie was his usual apple, but on top, on the crust, it had been infused with maple sugar and was so much better, just so perfect. Eric sat down hard on the bench, handily avoiding squishing the other pies.

 

“Hey, Bittle, are you okay? You look like that’s going to bite you rather than the other way around.” Jack laughed.

 

He laughed!

 

There was laughter! Merry fucking laughter.

 

It’s not like Eric hadn’t heard him laugh before, just not directed at him in a good-natured bro way.

 

Like he did with Shitty now and then.

 

Like they could be friends.

 

And after every morning checking practice there they were, perfect, maple sugar, apple mini pies.

 

“How do manage to keep them warm?” Jack would ask now and then.

Eric would just smile and mutter and sweat, but Jack never seemed to wait for an answer.

 

It wasn’t all happy maple flavouring. There were a few hiccups.

 

After Family Weekend, Jack couldn’t seem to forgive him for getting a goal in front of Bad Bob.

 

Eric had to rely on regular honest to goodness baking for a while because Jack’s cold shoulder seemed to affect his gift. Magic pies stopped appearing. There were a few sad looking whole wheat and carob cookies, but no one touched them, and everyone hoped Eric would snap out of this health food phase soon. Johnson hugged him, patted him on the shoulder and said, “It will be okay. I promise. I’ve read the comic.”

 

Shitty too. Shitty seemed to be the other one who thought something was off.

 

“Hey, Bitty.”

 

“Hey, Shitty.” Eric was sitting at the kitchen table scrolling through his playlist, wondering if there was a song to help bring the magic back. Sadly even Queen Bey didn’t have one to cover the ache of a messed up gift or at least not directly.

 

“Bitty bro. What the fuck’s up?”

 

“Hmm, what’s that?”

 

“Come on. Don’t fuck with me.”

 

“Shitty have you been hanging with Johnson, cause I don’t get what you're trying to say.”

 

“Eric Richard Fucking Bittle, I know. You aren’t producing desserts quite precisely the same way.” And he winked at Eric. The blood drained out of Eric’s face, and the room seemed to be a distinct shade of underwater.

 

“Whoa, there son, c’mere.” Shitty pushed Eric’s head down between his knees. “Breathe, nice and deep. Better?” He rubbed Eric’s back.

 

“Umm, yeah, I think so.”

 

“Okay then, what the fuck was that?”

 

Eric bit his lip. He had always wanted to tell someone, anyone. His Mama had said not to, that people would want to study him or use him, but this was Shitty, Shitty the first person he’d come out to. He made a decision.

 

“Come with me,” he said as he grabbed Shitty’s hand and dragged him down into the basement, closing the door behind them. “Swear,” he said, “Swear you won’t tell a soul.”

 

“Okay little dude, lay it on me. I think you know by now I’m not about to spill.”

 

Eric took a deep breath. His stomach flipped a few times, and he wished he’d prepared cue cards, but, well…

 

“Okay so about a million years ago, some great-grandfather of my Mama’s supposedly helped this woman avoid being burnt at the stake ‘cause she was a witch.”

 

Shitty’s eyes widened, but he didn’t speak, just gestured for Eric to go on with his story.

 

“Yeah, uh, so he helped some old woman, and it turned out she really was a witch, and she rewarded him for his good deed. He could make food appear out of thin air. Now he had to be careful because now all he needed was for everyone to think he was a witch and burn him at the stake, so he kept it all DL. But he told his wife and their kids knew, but it stayed pretty quiet. And Mama says it happens again every few generations. It’s all different foods, too, kinda reflects your personality or something, like this great uncle of mine, could only make dishes that had Brussels sprouts in them. Now I don’t mind me a sprout now and then, but seriously, he must have been a sorry individual to come up with that, I mean what kind of a…”

 

“Bits, focus.”

 

“Yeah, so anyway, the day I was born Mama said an apple mini pie appeared in my bassinet at the hospital, and that was that. Mama taught me to bake pretty young so that I could hide it.”

 

“Huh.” Shitty closed his eyes and didn’t say anything for a few moments. When he opened them, he looked at Eric with a mixture of wonder and pity. “So you actually create fucking desserts outta the fucking thin air.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“But not always.”

 

“No, if I’m really down or something it affects what happens.” Eric told him about the time he’d been locked in the equipment shed and how his parents knew something was wrong because of all the burnt pies, but that hadn’t really happened much since well, recently. Eric paused about to go on when Shitty jumped in.

 

“Jack’s pissed about your goal in front of his Dad. Dude. No pies! Just cookies from hell. Uh sorry.” Shitty looked at Eric with such compassion and understanding. It didn’t take long for them to notice the usually dank basement smell was replaced with…

 

“Holy fuck! Mint chip brownies! Jesus-every-loving-Christ! If I hadn’t of seen it, I mean I fucking believed you brah, but seeing gives it a whole new level. And a plate ‘n everything! Will you look at that?”

 

“You can’t tell anyone, please Shitty.”

 

“Brah, I doubt anyone would believe me if I tried. They’d accuse me of smoking too much, not that they’d be wrong.” He looked like he wanted to say something more but he shook his head and popped a brownie into his mouth. “Bits, you are a goddamn fucking magician.”

 

Soon after what Eric came to think of his second coming out, Jack’s disposition seemed to change a bit, and the desserts returned. He wondered if Shitty had spoken to him. It really didn’t matter. Jack seemed happier and more at ease with him and Eric even saw Jack smile at him once or twice. To celebrate, he produced an assortment of different kinds of crêpes, on his own, no magic, the following Sunday.

 

Lardo’s arrival sent the baking in a new direction, as she couldn’t believe Bitty could make Vietnamese desserts. She downed half a dozen _Bánh Lưỡi Mèo_ , belched and fist bumped him.

 

So things settled down fairly well and the school year flew by. Road trips could sometimes be a bit of a hassle, but having Shitty in on the secret helped. He came up with the idea of carrying a rechargeable warmer/cooler to explain any random desserts.

 

Once Jack got over Eric being Eric, it proved to be the best thing that had happened to have him on his line. Eric never skated better or played hockey better. He’d shoot the puck and no matter where Jack was, it would find him, almost as if his pie magic extended to hockey.

 

All of it, the whole thing, became rather dream like. Hockey and school and baking and magic all rolled into one. Eric felt more comfortable in his skin, felt more at home, even than he had in his real home with parents who loved him but perhaps didn’t understand him. These boys and Lardo got him, understood him, moved with him through the cycle of the self-contained little world of Samwell. Eric felt joyous and whole, even on the ice, even facing giants.

 

Until Princeton.

 

Stomach in his mouth, Jack’s words to him in his head.

 

“I’ve got your back.”

 

Ice smooth, cold, searing on his cheek. Light flashing. Sound coming in and out, down a long tunnel. An incredibly annoying buzzing sound he wished would stop.

 

“Bittle.”

 

The buzzing sound stretched out like taffy and slowed down. The burden of opening his eyelids almost more than he could bear. The thought of his Mama listening to the game and knowing he lay there and not being able to help, panicking, forced his eyes open.

 

“Bittle, can you hear me? Open your eyes. That’s it.”

 

Everything moved in fits and starts, like that ghost girl in The Ring and the same feeling of warped reality flowed around him. One minute lying prone on the ice, the next sitting in the dressing room, getting checked out by the medic.

 

He didn’t remember much. He found himself back at his room in the dorm; his roommate kicked out for the night. Not that he stayed there much anyway, exploring his freedom by working his way through almost as many girls as Ransom and Holster.

 

Laying on his bed, desperately hoping he wouldn’t throw up, Señor Bunny clutched in his arms, his head pounding, he became aware someone sat on the other bed.

 

“Jack?”

 

The only light in the room was a small reading lamp. Jack held a huge book in his hands, his back against the wall.  

 

“Hey, Bittle! How’re you feeling?” Jack’s voice was softer than normal, more worried than normal.

 

“Umm, okay, I guess. Head hurts. Should I remember getting here?” He sort of did, but it was all mushed together and disjointed.

 

Jack slipped off of the bed and took the three steps to Eric’s side. He ran a hand lightly on the back of his skull, checking the lump living there from where Eric had introduced it to the ice. Eric winced.

 

“Sorry. Still swollen. Can’t give you anything yet. Do you want some water, though?”

 

“Yeah I guess. Why’er you here?”

 

Jack’s face loomed out of the darkness. It was hard to make out, but Eric sensed him shudder and imagined he looked at him solemn and serious, two words Jack lived and breathed.

 

“Did you think we’d leave you alone?”

 

“Ummm, no, but…”

 

“ _Crisse_ , Bittle, you were hurt. You’ve got a concussion, and we are taking turns to watch you through the night.” His hand lingered on the back of Eric’s skull and then almost as if he realized what he was doing, he withdrew it and stuck both his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

 

The thought that his team, these boys, and Lardo, would do this, look after him, made his heart swell. A feeling of warmth and contentment suffused his skin and he cautiously nodded and accepted a glass of water. Jack helped him navigate to the restroom and stood guard by the door, his back politely turned but there if Eric needed him. Taking him slowly back to bed, he actually tucked Eric in, handed him Señor Bunny without a chirp and sat back down to finish reading whatever god awful book he had about The American Revolution.

 

Eric cautiously turned over, snuggled down deep under the comforter, the glow from earlier still coursing throughout him. He started to drift off, rocked to sleep by the feelings of home, even here in this tiny room. Home wasn’t the place; home was the people who lived there, and his team was home. As he drifted off, he thought about how he couldn’t wait until he felt better and he’d be allowed to bake again. He’d make…

 

His eyes shot open. Something woke him up. Something seemed completely out of place. He lifted his head a bit, not too much, not to bother Jack, who in spite of his care, looked up.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“No. Fine. Everything’s fine.”

 

He lay back and closed his eyes, trying desperately not to cry, squeezing his eyes tight, and demanding that he breathed normally, not give away how desperately scared he felt.

 

Inside, in the place where he had always known without knowing, where the pies lived, there was nothing. Nothing at all, cold emptiness and loss howled through him.

 

The room he was in smelled of young college boys. No cinnamon, no apple smell, no fresh warmed pastry scented the air. Even the fragile hope that a pie might now be sitting on the counter in the kitchen in the Haus could not creep into his chest and relieve his misery.

 

Because he knew without knowing. When he had felt the warmth and the love fill his insides, nothing happened.

 

There was no magic. There was no pie.

 

And if it had left, left for good, who then was Eric Bittle?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beignet aux pommes - basically like an apple fritter  
> tarte au sucre - brown sugar pie  
> so technically Eric would know what they are but he was confused XD  
> mémé- granny  
> tourtière- if you have not had this, you must - it is amazing:) I would almost go back to eating beef & pork again to taste this once more:D  
> merde- shit  
> crisse - Christ


	4. Baking is Love Made Visible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I did decide I needed another chapter after Eric lost his baking abilities. It is sort of an interlude between freshman year and what happens in his next year. The rating for the next chapter will definitely go up and at this time I feel I will divert a little more from cannon. Thank you for your understanding and patience:)
> 
> Thanks to mattsloved1 for checking this over for me:)

The day after Eric’s head connected to the ice, a tired and guilt-ridden Jack stood in front of the kitchen sink staring at nothing, his eyes sightless to everything but his inner turmoil. _I told him I had his back. I told him. I failed him as a captain and as a friend._

 

That last thought sort of surprised him. He’d become his friend without any intention or agenda. It had sort of snuck up on him in spite of his wish at the beginning that he’d never met Eric Bittle. Watching him lying on the ice brought home to Jack all the ways he’d mistreated him at the beginning of the year and it settled in his chest and wouldn’t budge. Listening to Bittle trying to hide his crying last night turned the lump into something else. It still lay there in his chest but had melted into something fierce and protective, a side he didn’t realize he had. That he hadn’t had room or energy for after…

 

_Right._

_So what are you going to do about Eric? How are you going to make it better?_

 

After a much longer period of reflective punishment, he turned, went up the stairs to his room and closed the door.

 

Two weeks later, in almost the same position and with a similar blank expression on his face, Eric stood looking out at the backyard without actually seeing it. His head still had that cotton wool feel and headaches came easily. He hadn’t been able to do any baking since his concussion, but that was just as well.

 

It was something he didn’t want to do right now anyway.

 

It pulled him into a space he didn’t want to be.

 

Sighing, he walked back to the table, spread out his books and pretended to study. It was the first time since he’d hit his head that he’d been cleared to read. He still wasn’t allowed any screen time which was almost as bad as the baking, and he had to watch out for bright lights.

 

The doctor had told him he might feel a little down at times, and to come back if he had any reoccurring dizziness.

 

And he was down. He hadn’t felt this depressed ever, even after being locked in the equipment shed.

 

But it wasn’t because of the concussion.

 

He couldn’t exactly tell the doctor he was miserable because he couldn’t make magic pies appear out of thin air.

 

When he called Mama to let her hear his voice, to reassure her he was all right, he almost told her about the pies, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. To hear her voice her concern or her disappointment would just about kill him. Intellectually, he knew she wouldn’t be disappointed but emotionally he just could not handle that right now.

 

It was such an integral part of who he was, he didn’t recognize himself without it. He knew his moods intrinsically without the pies, but it was just a quiet confirmation, a baking truth as it were, to have them appear.

 

It was also a connection to his friends and family. His magic pies and desserts made themselves known to the people he cared about. One day, soon, he would be able to recreate the desserts that flowed out of his subconscious. He knew without any false modesty that he was a good baker, and they would be tasty. His friends would compliment him and eat up his pie with relish.

 

But it wasn’t the same.

 

His magic pies were a different way for him to thank his friends, to connect with them and to uniquely express himself.

 

Who else could say ‘I love you’ to someone they cared about the way he could?

 

And he didn’t mean love as in he wanted to kiss any of them. Maybe.

 

Thoughts drifting randomly, they settled on that first night, lost and bereft, lying in his bed, as he listened to Jack turn the pages of his book, listened to his quiet breathing. How comforting it was to have someone there, even if at the same time he was in such pain from the concussion and from the loss of his gift. Head and heart damaged, but Jack’s steady presence filled in the gaps. Jack had his back in more ways than one.

 

And over the next little while, Jack was there, bringing him food, picking up notes from his classmates, stopping by and asking if he needed anything.

 

The only thing Eric could give in return was to wait for them back at the Haus after they lost their last game and were out of the Frozen Four. And he couldn’t even bake a single muffin, let alone a pie.

 

If he had been there, skating with his team, would a pie appear for his friends anyway or would it be burnt or undercooked because of his disappointment? So maybe it was just as well. He was useless. He wasn’t there to help them when they needed it, and he wasn’t there to fill their stomachs when their hearts were empty.

 

He caught himself staring out into space again. Studying seemed like a waste of effort but he had classes to makeup and finals were not far off. He had to buckle down.

 

Glancing at the words, his vision didn’t swim exactly, but it wasn’t clear. Great. He still wasn’t ready. Collapsing on the table, he cushioned his head with his arms, and just lay there in an apathetic state. He didn’t even glance up when he heard someone enter the room.

 

“Hey, Bittle.”

 

Fan _fucking_ tastic. Jack.

 

Jack asked, in his usual quiet inflection, but filled with concern, “Are you okay?”

 

“Yes, no, I don’t know,” came Eric’s muffled voice. He looked up at Jack, his eyes blurry from being pressed into his arms.

 

Opening the fridge, Jack pulled out a protein shake and a bottle of juice. He poured a glass of juice and set it in front of Eric and then sat across from him while he fiddled with the protein shake, turning it a little, around and around. Then he took a sip and placed it back on the table. It went on for a few minutes.

 

“I, I was wondering, um, would you, maybe like, ahem, help with your reading?”

 

Eric stared at him. “What?” he finally asked, stupidly. He wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

 

“You can say no, or maybe you’d like Lardo or Shitty, but I, if you want, I could help you.”

 

“But you have your own classes.”

 

“Yeah, but I, um, I’m good, and I was thinking that maybe you needed help reading. I had a concussion once, and it was hard to even look at a book without having to try and learn the material.”

 

Eric just sat there, his mouth hanging open, watching as Jack’s face slowly turned a shade of red that made his heart flip over.

 

“Um, why don’t I get Lardo and…”

 

“No.”

 

“What?”

 

“No, thank you. I would really appreciate it, Jack, if you helped me.”

 

“Oh. Okay.”

 

And so, over the last weeks of school, Jack and Eric would meet either in the kitchen when it was quiet or in one of their rooms and Eric managed to pass all of his courses. He hated to admit it to himself, but he probably did better than if he hadn’t had a concussion and had studied alone.

 

The final days of his freshman year passed, and Johnson came to him one day to tell him he had Dibs. Eric, not sure he’d completely recovered yet just thanked him before he went to seek out the others to explain to him what the heck that was.

 

Before he turned to go, Johnson had grabbed his arm and said, “Hey, it will be okay. There’s always a stumble or a roadblock for the hero in the narrative. Life and stories would be boring if the path were smooth. No worries little baker dude; everything will work out, and you will triumph in the end.”

 

“Oh, um, thanks, Johnson.”

 

Johnson fist bumped him.

 

When Eric found out that Dibs meant he was getting Johnson’s room in the Haus, for the first time since he fell a sense of comfort filled him instead of dread.

 

The last day rolled around, it had seemed an eternity away from the first of the school year, and now it snuck up on him before he blinked. His first year finished and behind him, he would return to Georgia and hopefully have a chance to discuss what happened with Mama, and move on. He had lost something beautiful and extraordinary, but perhaps he should just be grateful that was all. It could have been so much worse.

 

Shifting around some of the lighter boxes he’d already brought over and juggling his phone between his ear and his shoulder, he chatted with Mama. His heart, still bruised, beat with a regular rhythm but felt a lot lighter. The loss of his gift was still an ever-present ache, but he could spend small amounts of time not thinking about it or at least shoving it down, deep below his surface thoughts. On this last day of moving, when the Haus was slowly emptying, he made plans for next year, telling Mama on the phone about not needing any furniture, but perhaps a new mattress.

 

“Oh! Mama! You know what I want? New curtains for the kitchen. And industrial strength cleaning supplies for the downstairs bathroom.” There was a polite knock on his door. “I don’t live across from ‘Mr. Crappy’, remember? I live across from…Jack! Hello!”

 

“Oh, sorry.”

 

“Mother, I’ll call you back.”

 

Eric stood in his doorway smiling, smiling so hard it hurt. Words gushed out at Jack, and he couldn’t stop if he tried. He went on and on about his plans for the Haus over the summer until Jack interrupted with a well-timed, “Bittle! Listen, before I left, I just wanted to make sure we’re cool…and that you knew…I’m sorry about that hit. And, after everything that happened this year, you still voted for me for Captain. I really appreciate it.” Jack stood looking down at his feet as he played with the straps on his bag.

 

Something loosened in Eric’s chest; a tightness he’d know he’d carried but hadn’t realized it was this heavy. He held no animosity toward Jack. He never had and after the last few weeks, with the way Jack had looked after him, the friendship changed into something both new and familiar.

 

Eric could feel a blush creep up onto his face. “Jack, of course! I mean it’s been amazing playing with you. I can’t think of anyone else who I’d want to be captain.” He leaned against the wall, feeling shy all of a sudden.

 

‘Thanks, Bittle. Well, I’ve gotta go, plane to catch. Take it easy, eh? Make sure you get Ransom or Holster to help with moving.” He swung the bag up onto his shoulder again and turned to leave but stopped before he’d moved very far. He looked back over his shoulder and smiled at Eric.

 

“Oh, and Bittle? You really shouldn’t have.”

 

Eric looked confused. “Shouldn’t have what, Jack?”

 

“The mini-pies? They were so good, but you aren’t supposed to be baking yet. I’m afraid I ate them all. Difficult to take through Customs. Maybe sometime you can send the recipe to Maman. She’d love them. Okay, well, I really need to leave, or I’ll miss my plane. Bye!” Jack was out of sight before Eric could recover enough to ask what the heck he was talking about.

 

Head swimming a little, heart racing, he went back to his room, he stopped in the doorway, took a deep breath and pressed his hands together.

 

It wasn’t possible. He hadn’t made so much as a cookie crumb appear let alone mini-pies in the last month. Wondering if he needed to call the doctor again, he sat down shocked, on a, fortunately, empty chair. Instead of smelling the stale and rather funky odor of a room occupied by a former college hockey player or even the hint of grass and things growing in the gentle caress of a warm spring breeze blowing in through the open window, the smell of cinnamon and apple, of freshly baked pie crust with a hint of sweet maple sugar permeated his room.

 

On every available surface, balanced as if placed with a loving hand, was an apple mini-pie and he knew without tasting them that they were all sprinkled with maple sugar.

 

“Oh my goodness!” Tears sprang into his eyes, and he had no idea what to make of it.

 

When he arrived home to start his summer, leaving the mini-pies behind for Ransom and Holster as a thank you for helping him move, he sat on the back porch and told Mama the whole story. She sat and listened, nodding, not counting the number of times Jack’s name came into the conversation. If Eric had been watching her face instead of playing with the drips of condensation running down his glass, he would have seen a knowing look creep into her eyes.

 

They sat like that as the evening sky melted into the glorious colours of a spring sunset, listened as the familiar whine of the mosquitoes took up a chorus in the air, listened to hear the traffic out in the town fall into a quiet rhythm.

 

“Dicky?”

 

“Yes, Mother?"

 

“What do you think happened?”

 

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m wondering if the concussion affected things, maybe my brain needed a rest.”

 

“Hmmm,” she said.

 

“What?”

 

“Well, I don’t think you’re wrong, that’s for sure, but your pies have more to do with emotions than anything physical. Maybe it’s a guilt thing.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You hit your head. You knew you were out for the rest of the season as soon as they took you off of the ice. Maybe you had like a mental block or something. When you were tackled at that football game it didn’t disappear or other times you were hurt, but maybe because that just affected you. The concussion affected your whole team. And maybe…”

 

“What?”

 

“Never mind, just me being silly. Well, all’s well that ends well, sweetie! I do wish you had told me.”

 

“I know, Mother. It was just so hard. I felt like I had lost who I was. I didn’t quite know how to say it.”

 

“I understand.”

 

“I’m going to bed. It’s been a long day. Night, Mama.”

 

“Night, sweetie.” She kissed him on the cheek and watched him head into the house.

 

She sat in the dark, thinking about her son and how much she loved him. She wasn’t afraid for him, exactly, but she knew he would have a tough road ahead of him. Hard enough he had his special gift to hide and try to work around.

 

Harder still to be in love with someone who may not love him back.

 

Hardest of all to be different in a society who did not appreciate differences.

 


	5. You Can’t Buy Happiness, But You Can Make Mini-Pies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so…yeah…*runs hand through hair…I don’t normally do chapter counts but in my head I was sure this was going to be a straight forward 4 part story. Um, nope. I am hoping to finish with next chapter but, saying that I can’t promise :P I had also hoped to have all of the sex in this chapter, and, again, nope, but there is some finger licking good times.:) There will be much swerving from canon as the story moves along.
> 
> Thanks to mattsloved1 for reading this through for me.

The lingering effects of the concussion mostly disappeared. He needed to watch he didn’t do too much some days but other than a few nightmares about getting checked, he felt a bit better every day. An odd and annoying side effect of the dreams appeared to consist of weird desserts (cinnamon and garlic apple pies or tomato chocolate layer cake with mustard frosting) showing up on his dresser or the floor beside his bed. After throwing them out, he’d lay awake, scrolling through Ransom’s Instagram. He didn’t fret too much about the ‘Desserts From Hell’, as he took to calling them, because after not having them, he was happy any dessert turned up. Regular stuff would appear throughout the day if one could call magic pie normal. Mama agreed that the evil desserts, aka the DFH, would probably disappear once the nightmares did.

 

About once a day, Jack would text him asking if he was okay. Eric would shake his head and tell Mama Jack lived and breathed the whole apologetic Canadian thing. Whenever a message popped onto his phone, a maple sugar crusted apple mini-pie would pop on the counter beside him. Eric would munch on it thoughtfully as he typed back he was feeling better every day. It gave him the idea to bake a regular sized maple sugar crusted apple pie for Jack’s birthday. The pie would be made with his own two hands.

 

The summer passed, leaving behind its treasure chest of memories and Eric started to start packing up to go back to Samwell.

 

He and Suzanne arrived at the Haus about three days after Jack. The first day or two Suzanne and Eric spent cleaning, tidying and fumigating the entire Haus. New curtains in the kitchen, a new mat at the door and the two of them shopped, bought and baked enough food to feed an army. In other words about two days worth. A few choice Eric specialties showed up, mostly while cleaning and singing, some cute, little mini-cupcakes, a few cookies, all with decorations and quite professional looking.

 

“Oh, Dicky! So pretty!”

 

“What do you expect, Mother? I’m singing Beyoncé.”

 

Suzanne left soon after. Eric hugged her and promised he would Skype more often. She kissed his cheek, looked at him intently for a moment, and said, “Dicky, you know we love you, and we are so proud, no matter what.”

 

Eric’s face screwed up in a puzzled frown. “Yes, Mother.”

 

“Okay, just so you know. And Dicky, don’t waste any opportunities. You’re only young once!” She kissed him again, got into the car and began the long drive back.

 

Eric stood watching until he couldn’t see her and went back in the Haus. Jack stood in the living room looking like he wanted to say something.

 

“You okay, Bittle?” Jack said after a few awkward moments, his hands in his pockets, a faint frown on his face. The afternoon light looked particularly lovely, as it seemed to form a halo behind him.

 

Eric smiled. “I’m good. Jack, you gotta stop fretting so much.”

 

“You haven’t been cleared to play yet, have you?”

 

“No.” A faint knot of worry twisted in Eric’s stomach and the pleasant feeling he’d had looking at Jack seemed to dissipate. There was no sense in concerning Jack so he smiled as brightly as he could. “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” he said as he walked toward the kitchen to get dinner started. He half expected a rhubarb and salmon torte to be waiting on the counter. When it wasn’t there relief helped alleviate some of his anxieties.

 

As if attracted by the odor of Eric’s cooking, more people than lived in the Haus showed up for dinner. Some of the newest members of the team Nursery, Dex, and Chowder made their way to the table and like the miracle of loaves and fishes the pie overflowed. After dinner, Lardo and Shitty shoved Eric out of the kitchen and promised it would be up to Bitty standards of cleanliness when finished.

 

The next few days were a bit anxious while Eric waited to be cleared by the doctor for hockey practice. Feeling out of shape, he’d have a lot to make up when he finally got back on the ice. He sat with Lardo, watching practice, his eyes drawn time and again to a certain French Canadian Captain as he skated around, doing warm ups and suicides. My, he thought, Jack’s a beautiful skater. Intense and graceful, yet fierce at the same time, Eric felt his breath catch as he skated by.

 

Finally, finally, the doctor gave Eric permission. He suited up, did laps, everything went really well, until…

 

“Bittle, Bittle, Bittle. Bittle? Come on, Bittle.” The sound came from far away and down a dark tunnel. Coach Murray and Dex leaned over him as he lay on the ice, the cold seeping in through his uniform.

 

He faintly heard Dex and Murray talking; Dex thought he’d done something wrong. Murray assured him and helped Eric up and told him to cool off.

 

“And Bittle, come talk to me and Coach Hall after practice.” Eric skated to the bench, head down, face bright with embarrassment. He did not see Jack’s eyes follow him, nor the anxious expression on his face. His stomach churned and he wondered what monstrosity would be in the kitchen waiting for him.

After practice, after he dressed and had his back slapped by Shitty, Rans, and Holster, he made his way to the coaches’ office. They sat him down, praised his hockey, but said if he couldn’t get over his fear of checking, they’d have to remove him from the roster.

 

Eric nodded, his head down, lump in his throat. He left and went to sit out on the loading ramp, his hood pulled up over his head, feeling so small, praying no one would see him. The late afternoon sun found him, as well as a stray leaf or two blowing past, and he cried his heart out. Finally, with no tears left, he lifted his head, took a deep breath and got up to make his way back to the Haus. His brain whirled with ideas of how he would explain the weird pie that must be sitting on the counter and he hoped no one had tried to eat it. He stopped when he noticed something small sitting beside him on the ramp.

 

It was a maple sugar crusted mini-pie.

 

He frowned, eyeing it, stumped.

 

Something had changed.

 

Picking it up and holding it in his hands, the heat from it warmed his palms and a small glow of something not unlike hope settled in his heart.

 

He took a bite and the rich flavor that always accompanied this particular dessert filled his mouth. Inside where misery and despair had set up shop, warmth and comfort shooed them out. The pie settled his stomach and the knot of worry that had been building dissolved. He knew it would be back, but for a brief moment, it lifted him.

 

Trudging back to the Haus, the autumn wind dried up the remaining tears on his face. The mini-pie was gone in a few bites, but the memory of it stayed with him. He entered the Haus and without saying anything to the small crowd gathered in the living room he went to his room. He felt their stares, but he could not deal at the moment. Shutting the door, he curled up on his bed, faced the window, arms wrapped around Señor Bunny. Emotionally exhausted, he fell into a deep sleep but woke up when there was a slight knock on the door. It creaked open, and someone sat on the bed. An awkward hand touched his shoulder, and Eric turned his head slightly, fully expecting Shitty or even Lardo to be sitting there, ready to console him.

 

It was Jack.

 

Startled, he rolled over completely and sat up. “Jack! Goodness! What is it? Do you need something? I know I didn’t make supper, but…”

 

Jack held up his hand to stop Eric from further rambling. “No, I, um, well, I was wondering, would you like help, maybe, again this year? With checking?”

“Oh! Yes, please! You’d do that for me? Again?”

 

“Bittle, please.”

 

Eric smiled shyly, “Yeah, I guess getting up early for you is second nature.”

 

Jack’s mouth may have lifted in a slight grin, and there may have been a glimmer of something, must have been humor, in his eyes, “Somebody has to get you out of bed, eh?”

 

“Jack Laurent Zimmermann, are you chirping me?” Eric felt his heart beat a little faster as he reached out and swatted his arm.

 

“Bittle, you know I, um, we’ve got your back?”

 

“Yeah, I do. Thanks, Jack.”

 

“Okay, well, yeah, I’ll see you, but not tomorrow morning. Tomorrow I’m sleeping in.” Jack left and closed the door behind him.

 

Eric lay back down with a feeling of relief. Of course, Jack had his back. He was the captain. The captain and the team were only as good as their weakest player and at the moment, he carried the honor.

 

Falling back to sleep, he had no nightmares. Eric fully expected there’d be some but fortunately, the night stayed DFH free. With a much lighter heart, he woke early and even though he preferred to sleep in as late as possible, he beat everyone downstairs. Happily the kitchen did seem to be up to his standards. He put the coffee maker on and went up to shower and dress. Under the steady stream of hot water, he relaxed. The bathroom steamed up quickly. With his lightened mood, knowing it must be because the team had his back, he began to sing, not thinking how the sound would carry.

 

_Everywhere I’m looking now_

_I’m surrounded by your embrace_

 

The bar of soap in his hand, he swayed back and forth, head thrown back, eyes closed, the music swelling, he belted out the joy he felt. It flowed through him, and there would be at least one pie cooling on the window ledge when he got downstairs.

 

_Baby, I can feel your halo_

_Pray it won’t fade away_

_I can feel your hal…_

 

“BITTLE!” The shower curtain shook and pulled aside. Steam that had been building up swirled away. Eric dropped his hands quickly, thankful for the new and relatively large bar of soap. A slight squealing noise may have come out of his mouth. The cold air blew in on his wet skin and shocked him almost as much as the face of a perturbed Jack.

 

“Hello.” His skin, pink from the heat of the shower, turned a dark shade. Jack’s usual stony expression barely moved, but Eric felt mightily embarrassed. A hint of something else tickled the back of his mind, something pleasurable. It trickled down his spine, sending a shudder through him that had nothing to do with the cold air. His blush burned even brighter, and he tried to deflect.

 

“What are you doing?? I’m not decent!”

 

Visible exasperation seeped out of the cracks of Jack’s usual indifference. “Seriously? Bittle, we’re on the same team. I’ve seen…”

 

Meanwhile, in the rest of the Haus, the other members raised their heads as one, sniffed the air and wondered if the conflagration currently blazing through the bathroom upstairs would spark throughout the Haus, taking everything in its path. Shitty discovered the pie on the ledge he knew hadn’t been there when he entered the kitchen. Looking at it thoughtfully, he used it to distract the timid forest creatures, Rans, and Holster.

 

After a lot more yelling and an accusation of blasphemy, Jack threw a towel at Eric and said, “Calm down! Get dressed. Stop singing before everyone’s awake.” He turned glancing toward the counter. “Crisse, Bittle! In the bathroom? Do you have to leave baking in every corner of the house?” Jack picked up the oddly shaped dessert. Eric felt panic clawing at his insides. What the hell was that? He didn’t even recognize it.

 

Jack looked at it more closely. In his hand, he held something vaguely taco shaped but more like a boat made from deep fried pastry. He sniffed at it, his mouth quirking. Obviously, it smelled heavenly from the flicker of emotion just hinted at on Jack’s face.

 

“Is that a whole banana?”

 

A quick glance at Eric out of the corner of his eyes, he bit into it. There must have been fresh whipped cream in it because a large dollop of it sat, perkily, on Jack’s lower lip. His tongue, which Eric had never really thought of before, maybe, whipped out and licked up the cream. Eric swallowed, his mouth dry. Jack, for all of his disapproval of bathroom desserts, made the kind of noise Eric had only ever heard once in a porn movie.

 

“Bittle, I don’t know what this is, and I should definitely not be eating it, but it’s incredible, it’s…it’s sinful.” Jack’s voice deep normally, dropped even further on that word. A dark, syrupy substance dripped out where it had been bitten. It ran down Jack’s hand. He shifted the pastry to his other hand and licked his fingers, slowly, getting right between the fingers. “I love bananas. How do you always get it right? And caramel and, is that rum? Bit early for rum. Okay, I forgive you for waking me up, but promise me you won’t make this on game days.”

 

Jack left the bathroom. Eric stood there, his mouth open, the shock of feelings still in his system from when Jack had licked his fingers left almost as quickly as the steam, to be replaced with righteous anger. Drying off quickly, he wrapped a towel around his waist and another on his head, marched to Jack’s bedroom door and called in, “I’ll accept your apology for interrupting my shower when you are ready to make it.” Not waiting for a reply, he fled to his room and slammed the door, only to have all of the shower thoughts fall back on him.

 

He sat on the bed and put his face in his hands. “No, no, nope!” It couldn’t be happening; he wasn’t going to wake up to that caramel, banana, whipped cream thing all over his sheets. He knew what that meant! A repetition of the cookie fiasco all over again and he’d have to try and sneak his sheets down to the washing machine. There most definitely could not be major crush feelings for a straight boy swirling through his chest. Not again.

 

oOo

 

Fall settled in and the days passed by, swirling out of reach. Eric was able to hold it together, and the checking practice helped. He managed to keep his desserts about Jack to himself, but it took an iron will. He made sure to school his thought before checking practice.

 

One of the exciting things to happen was managing to talk and bribe his way into Jack’s Senior History Seminar. He’d been afraid he wouldn’t be able to take it this year, but Jack managed, somehow to convince the coaches to move morning practice on the days it was scheduled. He made a peach and blueberry pie and handed it to the professor. Her eyes lit up, she helped herself to the fork Eric provided and signed him in. Every day as a thank you an assortment of mini-pies found their way onto her desk. Funnily enough, there were never any of his specialty. They seemed to be reserved for Jack and Jack alone.

 

Eric continued to keep his feelings tightly wrapped. He figured by doing so the mini-pies would stop appearing, but every time Jack said hi, every time they ate breakfast together, one really embarrassing time Jack took him to get a pumpkin spice latte, and the waitress stated in a rather loud voice, “You can’t bring your own food in here!” a mini-pie would show up.

 

They were always, without fail, the same kind.

 

Jack just looked bemused when Eric handed him one and watched as he sunk further down into his seat.

 

Once, after a pretty hard-won home game, after a rather small Haus Kegster, not an EpicKegster, Eric found himself being put to bed. Jack, who rarely or never made an appearance, had come downstairs, to find him, of all places, laid out on the green couch, giggling slightly and completely s’wasted.

 

“Come on, Bittle,” he said and wrapped an arm around him, dragged him upstairs, managed to open Eric’s door and put him to bed. He removed Eric’s shoes and pulled the blanket up over him.

 

Eric smiled blearily at him. “You have no idea Mr. Zmimernom.”

 

“No idea about what?”

 

“The things you make me make. You have no idea. Every fuckin’ time, some honest to goodness gosh darn, mini-pie, poof, appears. What do you make of them apples, Jack?” He blinked. “Hey, your name’s Jack.”

 

“Um, yes.”

 

“Yeah, never mind, I was thinking Jacky Appleseed, but it’s not it.”

 

“Okay?”

 

“You ever do any tree planting? Ain’t you guys all lumberjacks and you don’t care?” He giggled a bit more. “Lumber Jack, hee hee hee.”

 

Jack left and came back with a big glass of water. “Drink this,” he said not unkindly.

 

Eric drank the glass of water and Jack got another one and left it in reach.

 

“Night, Bittle. I’m across the hall if you need me.”

 

Eric slurred into his pillow as he closed his eyes. “You have no idea, Jack. No idea.”

 

The door didn’t close until after Eric had slipped into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a link for the recipe for the bathroom dessert. Only I used a whole banana because i am a bad person XD
> 
>  
> 
> [Bananas Foster Mini taco Boats](http://www.bettycrocker.com/recipes/bananas-foster-mini-taco-boats/ed114507-d126-471b-9b35-235df5bc8714)


	6. Good Things Come to Those Who Bake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of thank you so much for putting up with my nonsense and ridiculous writing:) You are all too kind and I am very touched that you are reading this.
> 
> A few things to know about this chapter going in. I mostly try to take the dialogue from the comics and mix it a bit, but I did lift the entire conversation from the Kent/Jack behind closed doors scene. In this fic Kent does not come off in a good light. I know there’s more behind the story to come about Kent & Jack’s relationship & Jack himself has said they both owe each other apologies. We don’t know the whole story, but this is my version of it. Kent is young & he has a lot of growing up to do. He does emotionally manipulate jack in that scene. I have been the recipient of such tactics many times to recognize what he is doing. That doesn’t mean to say he is a totally dark character. We don’t know yet. This is my version for this fic. If you don’t like this version of Kent, he isn’t in it for long and you don’t have to read:) I personally find Kent a fascinating character – I am curious to see where Ngozi is taking us with him.  
> The other thing you should know is there will be a short-ish epilogue to this so technically the story is finished but I want to add a little future fic to it:) 
> 
> Thanks once more to mattsloved1 for putting up with my rambling & BS! 
> 
> And big thanks to [jaradel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jaradel) for coming up with one of the funniest line (IMHO).

The next few weeks were hard.

 

Eric trudged through the days of schoolwork, hockey practice and unrequited love as best he could. Thoughts were tucked away deep down inside, and he tried not to consider Jack in any other way but as a friend.

 

Unfortunately for him as much as he attempted to hide his feelings he was pretty sure the reason why so many more deserts were popping up, mostly of the French Canadian variety, had something to do with his feelings for Jack. Sometimes he thought a lot of it connected to the fond smile Jack got on his face when he saw _bagatelle fraises-vanille_ or _pouding chômeur_. Of course, Jack being Jack, it would also lead to a discussion on the history behind such desserts, but Eric figured he could live with it. It gave him an excuse outside their one class together and hockey and road trips and checking practice to sit and listen to Jack.

 

“…and did you know, Bittle, that _pouding chômeur_ was created by the women of Québec, the factory workers, during the Great Depression. Sometimes, when there wasn’t cake, they would use stale bread…”

 

Eric smiled at Jack. Jack and his enthusiasm for anything historical, Jack and his interest in his cultural history, Jack and his interest in Eric’s baking, Jack, and his adorable accent. Without meaning too, before he could stop himself, Eric’s smile grew tender.

 

Pop!

 

Startled by the noise, Jack looked up to see Eric eyeing a mini-pie with suspicion.

 

“Oh, I didn’t know you’d made that, too.” Jack frowned. Eric felt pretty sure he knew it just showed up.

 

“Um, yeah, wouldn’t be me baking without mini-pies. Ahahaha. Want it?” Eric held out the warm apple and maple-crusted pie, hoping to use the distraction of food.

 

“I really shouldn’t but, what the heck, eh? It’s a cheat day! My god, Bittle, these are always so good. They’re like your specialty or something. You should always, always make them.”

 

“Yeah, my specialty. I, I gotta go. Um, homework.” And Eric fled up to his room before Jack could see the tears starting to press behind his eyes.

 

He sat in his room with the door closed and tried not to think about Jack.

 

Another pie appeared.

 

“Just stop,” he muttered, not sure if he addressed the pie or himself. He sighed and bit into it.

 

oOo

 

The autumn drifted into the promise of winter. The winds were stronger, the skies held that steel grey colour and the air smelled of snow. Eric wrapped up warmer and the team chirped him mercilessly as he layered on more and more clothes. He would just roll his eyes and grab another sweater. Deserts became more savoury, wintrier. Apple to be sure, would always be there, but pumpkin, and pecan, hot and fresh both from the oven and from his peculiar ability. Warming meat pies, like beef or chicken but other kinds as well. Eric swept through the door after a cold day, entered the kitchen to find individual _tourtière_ potpies sitting on the counter.

 

“Bro!” said Holster. “How do you make them stay at just the right temperature? It’s like magic or something.”

 

Shitty raised his eyebrows and mustache at Eric’s nervous giggle.

 

“Oh, Holster, ha, ha, magic! You are so funny! There’s, ah, there’s no such thing as magic! Why that’s just, um, ridiculous.”

 

Shitty cleared his throat. “I raced ahead and pulled them from the oven where Bitty had left them to keep warm. Right Bits?”

 

“Uh yeah, that makes sense. I mean that was kind of you. Thanks.”

 

Holster looked back and forth between the two of them, shrugged and shoved the rest of the pie into his mouth.

 

“Dude,” said Ransom. “Don't you know you're supposed to be taking pleasure in this little masterpiece of flaky crust, tender chicken, succulent beef and juicy pork, eh? Don’t just inhale it. Rude!”

 

Shitty’s eyebrows (and mustache) signaled to Eric to follow him out of the room. Eric sighed and climbed the stairs just behind him. After dropping off his books, he went to find out what Shitty wanted.

 

“Bro, look, you gotta calm the fuck down on the pies. Unless you’re wanting the rest of the fucking team finding out about your little secret, you need to chill.”

 

“Yeah, I know. But it’s been a good year so far, for the most part, and when I am in a good mood, they just…happen.”

 

“I thought you said Mama Bittle wants you to control it more?”

 

“Yeah, but sometimes I get distracted.” _By thinking about Jack and kissing him and him putting his hand on the back of my head and pulling me closer…stop!!_ He didn’t dare look around to see if anything had appeared, just leaned against the closed door as nonchalantly as possible.

 

“Bits, it’s your gift, but it sometimes seems to be a burden for you and not that I’m telling you what to do, because that’s ultimately on you, but you know you could probably trust Holtz and Rans.”

 

“It’s just something I need to hide, even more than the being gay stays hidden back home. People, even if they don’t accept me for being gay, have at least heard of it. I don’t have to hide being gay here. That’s easy. Lots of people are gay or bi, but I’m like the only person who can make magic pies, or at least that I’m aware of.” He crossed his arms and sighed. “And it’s not like I want to hide any of me. I like who I am, but this is crossing over into the type of situation where people would do things to me, experiments or whatever, to figure out how I do what I do.”

 Shitty looked thoughtful for a minute. “Okay, but you’ve gotta stop, or even Holtz and Rans are gonna figure it out. And it’s none of my fucking business bro, but any particular reason you wanna tell Uncle Shitty about the noticeable increase in delicacies from la belle province?” Shitty’s pronunciation was worse than Eric’s. He wrinkled his nose at him. “Jack’s gonna figure something’s up.”

 

“Figure out what?” Eric felt that stirring of nervousness come back.

 

“Bittle, you know what I’m talking about.”

 

“Oh, ha, um, nothing, no one. I gotta go and clean up for dinner. Thanks, Shitty. I’ll work on it.”

 

He headed back to his room and groaned. Two, two! apple, maple sugar-crusted pies were sitting on his Economics textbook. “Erg!! Eric Richard Bittle, stop thinking about kissing that boy! He is straight and even if he weren’t there’s no way on this planet he’d want you.” He sat on his bed and put his face in his hands. Now he had to sneak the pies downstairs and put them on the counter like nothing had happened.

Shitty was right, it was getting worse, and he needed to do something about it. Suppress his pies or at least figure out how to reduce the amount he created. A sharp pang of fear still lay underneath at the thought of suppressing them, though. He didn’t want it backfiring and no pies appearing.

 

He would just have to concentrate and not think about Jack or kissing him or Jack ripping back the shower curtain.

 

“Arg!!” The stupid banana boat confection of sin plopped down beside him. He tore his hair a bit, but then shrugged and ate it. That sizeable ass he craved would certainly come if he kept this up, and not in a good way.

 

“Oh my goodness. Jack was right! This is incredible! What am I saying? It’s like I’m eating my own lust! You are so going to hell!” With a mournful expression on his face, he finished the dessert. Later, much later, when the Haus had quieted down, he snuck the two pies downstairs.

 

Back in his room, he went through various websites on meditating and relaxation as well as a few on lucid dreaming hoping to discover a way to try and calm down about his pies a bit. For the most part, it worked. At first, he didn’t necessarily reduce the amount of pie that showed up, but he did manage to stop them from appearing completely randomly. Eventually, the amount went back to his old levels of pie. Knowing a lot of it had to do with his unexpressed affection and crush for Jack helped a bit. In some ways. Occasionally.

 

“Bro, Bitty, Bitty bro, Bits! How’s it hanging?”

 

Eric was slumped at the table, face buried in his arms, surrounded by a half-dozen mini-pies. Shitty could hear the annoyance in his voice, even though it was muffled. “Peachy!”

 

“Peachy? As in peach pie? You okay, Bits?”

 

“No! As in Jack baked with me for our final project, winked at me before heading over to the library, left the room and poof!” He gestured from his prone potion.

 

“Ah Bitty, you’ve got it bad. Tell him!”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Tell him you like him!”

 

“Um, no thank you.”

 

“Why the fuck not?”

 

“It’s complicated, Shitty!”

 

“But…”

 

“You gonna tell Lardo you love her?”

 

“Well, that’s…I mean…low blow, bro.”

 

“’Zactly.”

 

Shitty left with a couple of the pies in his hand, muttering something about that being beside the point.

oOo

 

The end of the semester crept upon them, and Holster and Ransom were hard at it, planning the ultimate EpicKegster. They had invited almost every other school in the area through their Facebook contacts.

 

Eric vowed to stop mooning over Jack and have a good time. It wasn’t his fault there were a lot of Jack’s favourites thrown in the mix of baked goods he had created by hand and thin air. It didn’t matter Jack wouldn’t be showing up for this one, that he was up in his room probably watching something about World War II and the Invasion of Normandy or something. It didn’t matter…

 

“Hey, Bittle!”

 

“Jack? I cannot believe you! What are you doing here?”

 

“Well, I thought it would be a nice idea to come to at least one of these things, my last year and all.” He smiled, smiled at Eric, warm and soft, his blue eyes sparkled with mischief and something else. Eric’s heart flipped and slid into his stomach to settle with a pleasant ache. This boy, he thought. How could anyone possibly be as beautiful as he?

 

He felt the pull in his chest and knew a dozen cookies were now perched on the table. He didn’t care. From the way his heart felt they were probably chocolate chip, warm and gooey.

 

“You know something always goes wrong at these things, and it’s good to have back up. Oh, and make sure you lock up your room. Last time we had a party this big, some guy threw up in Shitty’s room. Ha!” Jack proceeded to tell Eric all about having to drag a couple of the football players out of the Haus. His heart already big and full, Eric could feel it continue to swell in his chest as he thought about Jack hauling them out of here and taking on the rest of their O-Line with a fire extinguisher. He knew some pies and possibly a cake had joined the collection on the table. Only hoping most of the guests were too drunk to notice at this point.

 

“I’ve got to Tweet about that,” he said, beaming at Jack and pulled his phone from his pocket. “I’m surprised you’re not chirping me for taking my phone out.”

 

“Well, since you have it out, we could take…a selfie or something, if you want.”

 

“And there it is!”

 

“I’m serious! You know, like ‘Bitty’s first big kegster.’ I mean I don’t get selfies, but…”

 

“I wouldn’t believe it if I weren’t seeing it myself. Jack Zimmermann. At a party. Taking a selfie.”

 

Both Jack and Eric turned to look. Eric took in a deep breath as he realized who stood there.

 

“Oh, my gosh!” he said.

 

Jack said nothing much for a bit and then “Kent.” Kind of flat and shocked sounding.

 

Not much taller than Eric, small and blond, his Aces snapback on backwards, hands in his pockets, a cocky grin on his face. “Didja miss me?”

 

In the rush of people coming over to see, touch, speak to Kent, Eric lost sight of Jack. A sense of disquiet settled inside, displacing the romantic feelings lurking there. He’d had a small glimpse of Jack’s face before losing him in the crowd. He looked pale and ill. It worried him. A quick search the Haus, but no Jack.

 

Finding Ransom and Holster and listening to their version of what had happened back during the draft made him uneasy and speaking to Shitty about it didn’t make it any better. He understood a jealous Jack, he had lived and played with that Jack, but he seemed different now.

 

“Hey, Bits! Don’t forget to fucking lock your room,” Shitty yelled after him as he continued to hunt for Jack.

 

He took the stairs two at a time and arrived on the landing. Searching for his key, he paused when he heard voices coming from Jack’s room. He tried not to overhear and continued to check his pockets.

 

“…I don’t know.”

 

“What about Las Vegas?”

 

“I…I don’t know, okay?”

 

A really long pause and then, but much quieter, “Kenny…I can’t do this.”

 

“Jack,” Kent’s voice soft but with a whine and something else, something Eric thought he recognized. “Come on.”

 

“No, I…uh. Kenny!” There was a thud, like a body pushed against the door.

 

Then Eric heard Kenny speak again between pleading and demanding, “Zimms, just fucking stop thinking for once and listen to me. I’ll tell the GMs you’re on board, and they can free up cap space. Then you can be done with this shitty team. You and me…”

 

Jack’s voice came, low and almost a growl, “get out.”

 

“Jack.”

 

Eric didn’t know what to do. He knew he shouldn’t listen, but his legs wouldn’t move.

 

“You can’t…you don’t come to my fucking school unannounced…”

 

“Because you shut me out…”

 

‘’…and corner me in my room…”

 

“I’m trying to help…”

 

“…and expect me to do whatever you want…”

 

“Fuck…Jack!! What do you want me to say? That I miss you? I miss you, okay? I miss you.”

 

“You always say that.”

 

Eric’s heart pounded in his chest.

 

“Huh. Well, shit. Okay. You know what Zimmermann? You think you’re too fucked up to care about? That you’re not good enough? Everyone already knows what you are, but it’s people like me who still care.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“You’re scared everyone else is going to find out you’re worthless, right? Oh don’t worry, just give it a few seasons, Jack. Trust me.”

 

“G…get out of my room.”

 

“Fine shut me out again.” The door rattled, and Eric dropped the key.

 

“And stay away from my team.”

 

“Why? Afraid I’ll tell them something?”

 

Dropping to the ground, he kneeled and tried to pick it up, his hands groping for it, fingers numb.

 

“Leave, Parse.”

 

The door opened, and light from Jack’s bedroom streamed out and over Eric. He looked up to see Jack and Kent staring at him. Both distinctly rumpled, shirts pulled out of their jeans and Jack’s hair mussed. The silence oozed out from every direction, heavy and thick, it even muted the pounding bass from the stereo downstairs. Eric thought he might throw up a little.

 

Kent walked passed him, putting his cap back on. He didn’t turn to look at Jack but threw out a parting shot. “Hey, well. Call me if you reconsider or whatever. But good luck with the Falconers. I’m sure that’ll make your Dad proud.”

 

Eric looked up in time to see Jack disappear into his room and slam the door. Again the sound of something hitting it from the other side and the soft swoosh of cloth skimming down. Eric could imagine Jack leaning against the door and sliding to the floor.

 

He wanted to knock, but he knew there would be no response. Standing for what felt like an eternity, he played the conversation over and over again in his head. He knew he shouldn’t jump to conclusions but what Kent had said to Jack felt so manipulative. Eric’s stomach rolled at how Kent had tried to get Jack to talk to him, to listen to him by saying he could tell the team a few things, that he was the only friend he had.

 

Heading into his room, he sat on his bed, not sure what to do. He didn’t feel like returning to the party, and he desperately wanted to go and see Jack, but he knew it wasn’t his place. He eventually undressed for bed and crawled in between the sheets.

 

Sleep came in the wee small hours, but when it finally did he was certain he could smell burnt blueberry pie.

 

Waking up late, he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, contemplating whether or not he should knock on Jack’s door and talk to him. It didn’t feel like his business, but he wanted to reach out, to tell Jack he was here if he needed someone to talk to.

 

He pulled himself out of bed, dressed and headed downstairs to start coffee. Coffee would be needed before facing Jack or the predictable chaos of the party after effects. Parts of the Haus he walked through, with his eyes not closed exactly, but not looking either. There seemed to be a few leftover people lying in corners or on the dilapidated furniture.

 

The kitchen, while not up to his standards, seemed passable at first glance. He suspected Lardo had a hand in the tidying process.

 

He put the coffee maker on and rummaged through the fridge to see if there were enough ingredients for pancakes, a final breakfast before everyone headed off to their families for the Winter Break.

 

While he heated the griddle and stirred ingredients into the mixing bowl, he thought about last night, about the look on Jack’s face when he slammed his door. He thought about some of the things he heard, and he vaguely remembered the smell of burnt blueberry pie. Apprehensive, he wondered if Kent Parson had been hit with a pie on his way home last night. Hopefully not. He didn’t know for sure he deserved that, although the way Kent had spoken to Jack and the look on Jack’s face and the sound of Jack’s body sliding down the door made him wonder if maybe one pie would have been punishment enough. He never wanted to see that look on anyone’s face again.

 

Pouring the batter into the pan, he noticed a half dozen cookies on the counter. He checked the pancakes, bubbles were forming nicely so he flipped them and then rummaged around in one of the cupboards. He found a Ziploc bag, placed the cookies inside and closed the bag. Confused for a moment it wasn’t a pie, he finally remembered Jack would be flying back to Canada, and Customs would confiscate anything with fruit in it.

 

The pancakes were ready, so he plated them, put them inside Betsy to keep warm and then poured out more batter. The smell of food and the odour of coffee must have wafted its way up to the bedrooms because he heard people on the stairs. In trooped Holtz and Rans, both a little worse for wear, followed by Lardo, who had sunglasses on. She held up one finger as if to say ‘do not speak.’ Eric handed her coffee first.

 

There was a loud sound of an air horn coming from the front room, those in the kitchen cringed at Shitty’s voice on the megaphone shouting out, “Cockadoodle Motherfucking Doo! Rise and shine and get out my Haus!” Various groans could be heard from the bodies lying about the Haus. Lardo peered over the edge of her sunglasses and put her head carefully down on the table.

 

A rather jaunty Shitty, dressed in red boxers, sauntered into the kitchen in a surprisingly good sense of humour.

 

“Well, well, well! You guys look like shit! I told you to lay off of the tub juice!”

 

Lardo glared at him in a way that said Shitty’s days were numbered.

 

“At least I beat Kent Parson, hands down, no contest at beer pong. Pretty sure it was on YouTube.”

 

“Hmmm, interesting you should mention Parson. Seems he’s the talk of social media this morning.”

 

Holtz looked up bleary eyed. “Well, I’m not surprised. He showed up here at the best EpicKegster anywhere, and almost everyone got a selfie with him. He’ll be trending on Twitter.” He weakly high-fived Rans and they sipped their coffee in unison. Eric would have found it funny if Shitty’s eyes hadn’t landed on him. And narrowed. Almost Lardo like.

 

“Apparently someone put a burnt blueberry pie in Kent Parson’s car last night. Fortunately, for all concerned it didn’t happen until he got back to his hotel, so no one here could be to blame, could they Bitty?”

 

Everyone at the table looked puzzled, but as they were all too hung over to care much, they didn’t pay attention when Shitty sidled closer to Eric as he flipped more pancakes.

 

“Wanna tell me how that might have happened?” Shitty whispered.

 

Eric looked at him, feeling a bit sick at the thought that his gift had been behind the malicious attack last night. “I, uh. I uh didn’t do anything on purpose!” he hissed back, eyeing the group at the table. “I swear! Or at least…”He felt his face flush. Suddenly remembering the smell of burnt blueberry pie, he felt a little nauseated. There was a flashback and the slightly sour smell of the equipment locker. “Oh no!”

 

“Whoa, Bits, don’t burn the ‘cakes! We’ll chat later.”

 

Eric served the pancakes, but he couldn’t eat any. He fled to his room to think, taking the cookies he’d packaged for Jack with him. Sitting on his bed, he waited for Shitty to knock on his door. He really should be packing to head home. While he waited, he heard Jack’s door open and close and the sound of footsteps heading downstairs. He looked at the cookies and wrote a quick note to slip inside.

 

_Dear Jack!_

_I hope you have a swawesome break._

_Rest & relax. Enjoy the cookies eh? _

_ERB_

 

Looking at the note, he wanted to add I’ve got your back. He wanted to add, You can talk to me anytime. He didn’t. Shaking himself out of his reverie he opened his door quietly and snuck across the hall. He found Jack’s suitcase, already packed and slipped the bag inside. Where he wouldn’t find it right away. He went back to his room.

 

A few minutes later Shitty knocked on the door, came in and sat on the only chair, without saying a word, not really judging but judging.

 

Eric fiddled with his blanket, cleared his throat once or twice and said, “I, uh, I can’t explain why that happened, because I overheard something I shouldn’t have. I didn’t intend to, but I must’ve felt deep down inside that maybe Kent deserved it?” his voice rose a bit at the end and came out a bit squeaky.

 

“Bitty…”

 

“Look, I didn’t mean it to happen, but oh my God, was it bad?” He covered his face with his hands. He knew what it meant, but that didn’t mean Kent deserved it. Or did he? You don’t know the whole story. Naturally his gift would side with Jack.

 

“Not according to what I’ve read. Parson seemed to think it had to be some kinda fan gift. He’s confused as to how the pie got into his car, but he’s laughed it off. No one but you and I know it was you or at least your subconscious talking. You don’t have to explain. I am sure that while I don’t know the whys and the wherefores I can guess that Jack and Parson had an interesting and probably heated tête-à-tête, and you felt the need or your gift did, to come to Jacky-boy’s rescue. I am curious as to the choice of material, though.”

 

Eric continued to fiddle with his blanket. Looking at the ground, he said, “Do you remember when I told you guys about being shoved into the equipment locker?”

 

“Yes.” There was a growl in Shitty’s voice like he wanted to personally get his hands on those boys.

 

“Well, so, yeah, one of the things that happened, one of the reasons Coach found me, was because the ones who did it were all covered with blueberry pie, burnt blueberry pie. He figured out something must’ve happened to me. They shoved me in a shed and my gift punished them.”

 

Shitty looked thoughtful for a minute. “Huh, so your gift saw that as a fit punishment for a bunch of Neanderthal bullies. Okay. Maybe there’s more to what’s going on than you can say, but perhaps I don’t feel so kindly toward Mr. Kent Parson so much anymore. Perhaps I’d like to give that fucker a piece of my mind.” Shitty stood up to go and looked at Eric. “Next time, make it two.” He nodded and left.

 

Eric sighed. He still felt guilty about his gift doing something without his conscious thought, but at least Kent wasn’t hurt. And he’d probably bake the next pie himself.

 

oOo

 

Christmas came and went. Eric spent a mostly pleasant visit at home. It was nice not hiding his pies in the house, but he hid being gay. It seemed like an odd and sad trade off. He put up with Coach’s queries about whether he’d found himself a girlfriend or not. His mother would give Coach a look now and then that made Eric wonder if perhaps she knew more than she was letting on. He ignored most of it and was able to sidetrack the conversation with talk of hockey and Jack and how Jack was doing figuring out which team he’d sign with. It was something Coach could understand. Again his mother would give him that look whenever he brought up Jack, and he brought up Jack a lot, but Eric didn’t want to read too much into it in case she was just looking at like that as a subtle form of communication, like, it’s your turn to make the coffee cake for the visit to Aunt Helen’s.

 

oOo

 

Returning to Samwell after the Break felt good in a different way. People didn’t blink about him being gay, but he had to hide the pies.

 

Shortly after returning the team went out on the Pond for a game of shinny. The sun shone, the air crinkled the inside of his nose. It felt good to be outside in the cold, fresh wintery day. Eric’s mood showed up as a couple of dozen icebox cookies to compliment his hot chocolate. Happy to do a jump on the ice for the newspaper, he chirped his team members about how no one wanted him doing one during practice or a game.

 

After his jump, he skated over to where Jack sat taping his stick and said, “Hey, Jack! I just want to see if you’re okay. I’m not checking in, and I don’t want to overstep, but I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. I have a feeling the end of last semester may not have been a lot of fun for you.”

 

Jack continued to look at his stick. “Oh, um, thanks, Bittle. It’s fine, really.”

 

Eric did not look like he believed him. Jack sighed, “Bittle. Kent and I both owe each other a lot of apologies. I’m not proud of…he and I…have had our differences.”

 

“I’m not trying to pry. I just noticed you seem a little tense.”

 

“Ha ha, probably just my robot mode, as Shitty would say. I guess I get worked up, but the spring semester goes by fast. The ice on the Pond will melt." He sighed again. “Last semester. You know? I should really take that photography class.”

 

“Oh, my goodness! You? A photography class?”

 

“Hey. Art isn’t just for Lardo.” Jack looked up at him and smiled, a lopsided grin that reached his eyes, and overflowed right into Eric’s heart. The blue in his eyes matched the sky, and Eric found himself grinning back. His stomach flipped over and, “Oh no!”

 

Jack had been looking right at Eric, probably hadn’t noticed the mini-pies that popped into existence, probably wouldn’t have if Eric hadn’t turned pale and flicked his eyes over to where they were perched, sitting on the fallen tree. Smug little bastards, just sitting there, steam curling up from them, the spicy aroma of cinnamon tickling his nose.

 

Jack frowned and then looked back at Eric and then to the pies and back at Eric. “I know those mini-pies weren’t there a minute ago. Bittle? What’s going on? Has this anything to do with the cookies?”

 

A buzzing sound was filling up Eric’s ears, and he wasn’t sure he heard Jack correctly. “Cookies?”

 

“Yeah, I meant to ask you. I found the bag of cookies in my bag, and I was going to tell you they were great, but it was weird. I swear the bag never emptied. I kept thinking I’d eaten them all and I’d go to throw the bag out, and there were always more. Um, is there something I should know? Does this have to do with the other weird desserts that just show up when you’re around?”

 

Eric sat down on the log hard, hard enough that a couple of pies fell and landed in the snow. Jack scooted over and rescued them. He just stared at Jack.

 

“Bitty? Are you okay?” Concern graced Jack’s face. He reached out and grabbed Eric’s shoulder, shook it lightly. “Are you going to throw up?”

 

He shook his head slowly. “No. No, but I think I need to go. I, uh, I’m going back to the Haus.”

 

Jack looked like he wanted to say something, but he closed his mouth and nodded. “Okay. Do you want me to go with you?”

 

“No, no, uh, no thank you. I will be fine.”

 

Jack still didn’t look convinced, but Eric had already taken off his skates and grabbed his boots. His hands were shaking as he stuffed his skates in his bag and put on his boots. The way his skin prickled, he knew his face glowed a bright red. He picked up his bag and said, “I…I guess I’ll see you.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Leaving, he tucked his head down and trucked back to Faber to change and then to the Haus. He entered the Haus and trudged upstairs to his room. Once inside, he shut the door and lay on his bed.

 

The cold grey light of a fading winter evening marked the time when he heard the rest of the residents return. He rolled over, clutching Señor Bun, facing the wall. His eyes pricked with tears, but he couldn’t tell if it was because Jack found out or if because Jack might find out what the pies meant. He didn’t want Jack to come in and ask him. He didn’t want Jack to put it together, and Eric would see his face getting that knowing look, he would smile in an understanding way and then he would let him down. Eric would have to see Jack every day, would have to know that Jack knew how much he liked him. And the pies, the pies would still keep coming. They would follow Jack all over the country. He’d be kind at first but after he was married and had kids, how could he explain to his wife that some guy he played hockey with in college kept sending him pies? Jack would have to get a restraining order. Tears were rolling down his face. He knew he couldn’t have Jack, but he didn’t want to spend their last year together avoiding each other, full of awkward silences and mini-pies.

 

There was a knock at his door. He hastily wiped his face with the sleeve of his hoodie and cleared his throat. He stuffed Señor Bun under his pillow and croaked, “Come in.”

 

Jack. Of course, it was Jack. Like any good captain, he wanted to check in on Eric, probably ask about the weird dessert, make sure he hadn’t run away.

 

“Hey, Bittle. Can I come in?”

 

“Uh, sure, of course.” Eric sat up. Jack entered and shut the door.

 

“Can I turn on the light? It’s dark.”

 

“O…okay. Sure” Jack reached over the clutter on Eric’s desk and turned on the lamp. He turned the chair around and sat down. Eric found his hands to be quite fascinating.

 

“So um, about the pies. What’s going on?”

 

Eric sighed, wiped his eyes again and started talking. He told Jack everything, going back to the day he was born, a few instances in school all the way to this afternoon’s hockey game. “And so, when I am feeling intense emotions or things are happening I sort of make pies and…and other desserts just happen.”

 

Jack looked very thoughtful. He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Eric could see him putting it all together.

 

“So your first pie, when you were born, what was it?”

 

“Oh, um, it was an apple mini-pie. You weren’t far off that time when you said they’re my specialty.”

 

“But the maple sugar? That’s new, right? Because you just started adding maple sugar to pies when you came here. I remember we talked about it.” Jack’s eyes were hard to read it the light from the desk lamp. He sat back a bit in the shadows, but there may have been a flash of something barely seen in his expression.

 

“Uh, yeah, they are now always maple sugar-crusted. I don’t make plain ones anymore.”

 

“And the never ending bag of cookies?”

 

“Yeah, that was me, or rather it was the gift.”

 

Did he see a wicked grin flash across Jack’s face? No, it must be a trick of the light.

 

Jack leaned forward a bit. “So that dessert in September, when I surprised you in the shower, what was with that?”

 

Eric felt his face burn, “Oh, you know…”

 

“No, I think I need you to tell me. See, I have this idea, but I think I need you to confirm it for me.”

 

“I, uh, I um, well…”

 

“That’s what I thought.” Jack leaned forward a bit more, close enough he easily caught Eric’s hands in his. “Bittle.”

 

“Yes, Jack?” His heart was pounding, he tried not to think about pies.

 

Softer. “Bitty.”

 

Softer. “Yes, Jack?”

 

Jack leaned forward more. He let go of Eric’s hand and placed his hand on Eric’s cheek. He leaned in and lightly brushed his lips against Eric’s. Eric’s eyes widened, his heart stuttered, and he closed his eyes and sunk into the kiss. What a kiss it was, soft, gentle, full of so much meaning. Jack pulled back a bit, stroked his face and then leaned in again kissed him harder, passionately.

 

Eric’s toes curled, and the smell of cinnamon and maple overpowered everything.

 

Opening his eyes to break off the kiss, he looked around the room. “Oh my goodness!”

 

On every surface, on every piece of furniture, every book, covering the bed were dozens and dozens of mini-pies all warm and flaky, all full of apple and cinnamon, all dusted with a sprinkling of maple sugar.

 

Jack looked around in surprise and then he laughed, a joyous, happy laugh, and he kissed Eric again.

 

They spent a good few minutes kissing, slow and indulgent. When they broke apart, Jack leaned his head against Eric’s. “I wanted to do that for a very long time now, but I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

 

“Oh my goodness! Jack, honey! I have been interested in you for so long! Even back, well even back to last year when you were…”

 

“When I was an asshole,” Jack smiled. If he continued to smile at Eric that way they’d be up to their eyebrows in mini-pies.

 

“I would not use those words exactly. I am too much of a gentleman, but if you insist.” Eric smiled back at Jack, he felt full to bursting. He leaned up and kissed Jack again. “I could get used to this,” he said.

 

Jack rubbed the back of his head, “About that…”

 

Eric felt his bubble burst. Here it comes.

 

Jack looked at his face. “No, no not like that, it’s just. Are you okay with not telling anyone just yet? I can’t come out yet. There’s too much at stake. I mean, I want to eventually but. Not yet. I don’t want to…I don’t want you to have to hide who you are, and I don’t want you to feel like I’m ashamed of you or anything.”

 

“Jack…Jack, it’s okay! Usually, I’m the one who rambles.” He took a deep breath. “I’m good with waiting or whatever you need to do. I understand about keeping things quiet.”

 

Jack chuckled. And then turned sober. “I just don’t want you waiting for me forever, Bits. I want you to be happy.”

 

“Jack, look at this room. Don’t you think I’m happy?”

 

“Yeah, I guess you are.” And he kissed him some more.

 

A few days later Jack and Eric were out shopping for groceries. Ransom, Holster, and Shitty were in the kitchen studying. Hostler stretched and took a good look around the room. Funny, there seemed to be more pies than there were a few minutes ago. He must be studying too hard. He looked over at Ransom. “Is it just me or are there like more mini-pies in the Haus lately?”

 

Ransom looked around the pie covered counter. “Nah, bro. I think it’s just you. Bitty, you know he bakes. And he’s been happy lately, so he bakes more.”

 

Holster nodded, “Yeah. He’s happy, and he bakes! Maybe he’s happy because he’s dating someone! And it’s making him even happier so more baking.”

 

“Nah! Bitty’s got priorities, dude. He’s a baking fiend. But that reminds me, we really should find someone for him for Spring C.”

 

“You two are idiots,” said Shitty, under his breath.

 

oOo

 

Jack saw Valentine’s, mostly due to Shitty’s tutelage, as an artificial construct made up by the Greeting Card Industry to promote love for profit. In spite of his thoughts regarding that most romantic of days, he also knew Eric had a very passionate soul, and he wanted to do nice things for him (and to him). And even though Shitty would laugh at the cliché, he had a deep and abiding need to make their first time together a memorable as he could. Lardo may have given him some guidance and insight. It wasn’t normally something he’d come up with on his own. He booked a room at a very fancy hotel in Boston, and the two of them spent the weekend in bed getting to know each other in a more intimate way.

 

Up until now, there had been a lot of heavy petting and some interesting late night study sessions, but they hadn’t gone much further. Eric reassured Jack constantly that he didn’t feel he was being taken advantage of, and Jack reassured Eric that he wouldn’t eat all of the desserts that appeared.

 

After a really nice dinner at an expensive restaurant Bad Bob had recommended, they hurried back to their room. The door slammed shut, and Jack pushed Eric up against it, his hands everywhere, finally settling on his ass, kneading it and trying to lift him up. He kissed down the side of his neck and Eric said, “Jack, God, if you keep that up I will come in my pants.” He could feel Jack’s grin on his neck.

 

Clothes didn’t stay on for very long and decorated the carpet. Eric stood there, naked, shy and utterly perfect, the golden glow of the bedside lamp warming his skin to apricot and peach. Jack just looked at Eric, drinking him in, as if he made the world turn.

 

“You are beautiful, Bitty.”

 

Eric blushed. Jack watched it travel down his chest and stepped closer wanting to touch to see if it burned. His fingers twitched. He stepped closer and wrapped his arms around Eric, stroking his back. With a sigh, Eric leaned into Jack as if he were coming home and kissed the underside of his jaw. He lifted his hands and let them drift to the back of Jack’s head and pulled him down to his mouth. Jack’s hand traveled down to Eric’s hips, skimming and teasing. He whispered in his ear, “Is this okay?”

 

“Oh honey, keep going or I’m not going to be held responsible,” Eric said with a shaky laugh. There were some definite nerves traveling through him, but he wanted this so bad.

 

Jack pressed his hands on Eric’s back and holding him tight, guided him to the enormous bed. He lowered him down.

 

“Now Mr. Zimmermann, that is hardly fair. I am completely naked, and you are still wearing your boxers.”

 

“Hmm, well, I guess I should do something about that.” He sat up a bit and shimmied out of his boxers.

 

Eric sat up to watch him and his breath caught in his chest. “Sweetheart, you are gorgeous.” It was Jack’s turn to blush.

 

They lay back together on the bed, the heat smoldered between them, but they needed to take a moment, to catch their breath. Jack brushed up Eric’s chest with his fingertips. “Hi, Bittle,” he whispered as if he couldn’t believe Eric lay here, with him.

 

“Hi, Jack,” Eric grinned at him and then leaned in and slowly, sweetly kissed him.

 

Jack groaned and pressed up against Eric. His tongue gently touched his lips, and Eric opened his mouth and touched tongues while Jack’s hands kept brushing his skin. With a strength that belied his slight frame, Eric rolled Jack over and onto his back. Straddling Jack, he leaned over to kiss him, his mouth slightly open as they breathed into each other. Eric, a bit tentative but determined, reached between them and touched the tip of Jack’s cock. He startled and groaned again, louder. It travelled through Eric, shaking him but gave him a certain amount of confidence. He did that, he made Jack feel that and make that noise. With his fingertips, he continued to feel the warm velvet of the tip and broke off the kiss to grin at Jack.

 

“What?”

 

“I just want to tell you, I have never been happier in my life, and I don’t just mean getting to have all the sex.” Jack laughed. “Be serious, Mr. Zimmermann. I think, I think I love you.”

 

Jack blinked, and Eric was pretty sure there were tears gathering there. “That’s good, ‘cause I love you back.” And he pulled Eric down and kissed him hard. Eric moved his hips forward a bit, and Jack groaned again. “Yes, keep doing that.” Eric continued to buck his hips. Jack reached between them and captured Eric’s hand, and he wrapped their hands around both of their cocks. His other hand pressed on Eric’s back holding him there, grounding him. He set the rhythm, stroking them both, long determined strokes. Eric felt the thrill of the two of them moving together, touching together. He knew it wouldn’t last long, but it also had the sensation of continuing forever. Time melted and shifted and had no meaning.

 

He felt his eyes roll back, and he gasped as he came over their entwined hands. Jack followed shortly after. They slumped together, Eric’s head on Jack’s forehead, breathing in sync. Jack pulled Eric down to him, wanting to have as much of their skin toughing as possible. He moved his hand to the back of Eric’s head, holding him there, treasured and precious as he kissed him, in an exhausted sort of way. He pulled his other hand out from between them, wiping it on the sheets and then moved it slightly over to the side. His hand landed in something, something warm and sticky. He lifted his hand, expecting something totally different and said, "Is that chocolate? Seriously Bitty? What the...where the fuck did that come from?"

 

Eric raised his head, blinked his eyes wearily and then he blushed furiously. "Oh my goodness! It's a lava cake! And come? Seriously? You’d better not be chirping me. I think you know where!" He reached out and picked up one of the many little lava cakes decorating the bed. This one had a rich, white chocolate filling with fresh whipped cream on top and all that gooey goodness was rolling down the sides and over Eric’s hand. He shrugged and bit into it, not seeming to mind what else was mingled with it. Jack blinked and then threw back his head and laughed. He laughed long and hard, and Eric thought he might never stop. He just smiled at his beautiful, beautiful boyfriend, tears of happiness streaming out of his eyes.

 

“Crisse, Bits, your gift is quiet literal sometimes.” He bent down and took a bite of the cake Eric held and licked his palm and fingers, all the while holding Eric’s gaze. It was pretty much the hottest thing he’d ever seen.

 

“Oh Lord, Jack, you are going to kill me!”

Jack kissed him some more, the cake and filling smeared over his mouth and it quickly became a little desperate. With the arousal surging between them, they would soon be able to have another go. Eric giggled a bit and reached over and grabbed another cake, smeared it on Jack’s chest and licked it off.

 

“God, Bittle!”

 

“What? I’m gonna need a few more calories if we’re going to keep this up.”

 

“Is that a promise?”

 

“Yes, Mr. Zimmermann, it sure enough is.”

 

oOo

 

The year came to an end much sooner than either thought possible. Only a handful of people knew they were dating, Jack’s parents, Shitty, and Lardo. Eric had invited Jack to his home for the Fourth of July. They would face Suzanne and Coach together. Jack felt that if they did it this way it might somehow be easier. They could see how much they loved each other.

 

On graduation day, they met briefly in Jack’s old room. Jack had to leave for Providence with his parents, and Eric would head home.

 

A kiss and another. A long and enveloping hug. Promises to call every night or Skype or text. Another kiss.

 

Jack’s phone buzzed with an incoming message from his mother. “Bitty, I have to go. I’ll call you tonight, Okay?”

 

“Okay, Jack.” Eric kissed him one more time. And then he turned, bent down to take something from the chair behind him and handed Jack a perfect, warm and delicious apple maple sugar-crusted mini-pie.


	7. Life is Better With Cinnamon Rolls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of your lovely comments and kudos for this story.  
> Thanks to mattsloved1 for looking this story over. :)

The day Sylvie Anne was born was the day her father discovered Sylvie wasn’t like the other girl babies in the maternity ward. She wasn’t like the boy babies either, truth be told, but Eric was so incredibly happy to meet her, he didn’t really care.

Eric handed out mini-cheesecake bites and took some to the nursing station, where they said they’d never had such lovely desserts.

When he got back to the room, he lifted Rose up, pointed out her new baby sister and hugged Suzanne at the same time while she had a good cry over the beauty of her newest granddaughter. Rose was as suitably unimpressed as most three-year-olds are and pouted when Papa Coach told her Sylvie wasn’t quite ready to play football yet. Eric laughed, wiped the tears from his eyes and asked Rose to go with Alicia and Bob to the cafeteria for some lunch. Jack went to make sure Angelica was comfortable and to thank her once again for being their surrogate.

Later, after she had been weighed and measured, poked and prodded, everything checked out, and things looked good, they were able to take Sylvie home.

Suzanne and Coach were staying with them for a few days and had left the hospital first to get supper ready. Alicia and Bob had taken Rose to buy a present for her new sister and one for herself and were going to bring her home soon. Alicia would come to stay for a few days after Suzanne and Coach went back to Georgia. It was a lovely arrangement and gave each new grandmother a chance to hog the baby and spoil Rose.

Upstairs the nursery, decorated with a beautiful mural courtesy of Aunty Lardo, was already filled with bears and balloons from all the well-wishers, including a mini Falconers jersey from Georgina and a glass sculpture of some sort that Eric was pretty sure was a bong from Shitty.

Sitting in the rocking chair they’d used with Rose, Eric held Sylvie in his arms and rocked back and forth while she looked at him with eyes too new to guess the colour. He hoped they’d be brown like his because Rose had blue eyes like Jack and Angelica and he figured it was only fair.

Jack came into the room after reading some bedtime stories to Rose and stood by the chair to lean over and stroke Sylvie’s cheek. “She’s beautiful, Bitty,” said Jack. “She looks just like you.” He spoke in the same hushed tones, his face full with as much awe as it had been when Rose had come into the world. Eric leaned up and kissed Jack, trying not to disturb their daughter who had just dropped off to sleep.

Eric passed her to Jack, who spoke a few words of French before kissing her gently and laying her down in her cradle. He looked up at Eric and said, “I hope she gets your cowlick and your cute little freckles.”

“Are you chirping me, Mr. Zimmermann?” He wrapped his arms around Jack’s waist and reached up for a kiss.

“I would never chirp you, Mr. Bittle, on such an auspicious day.

“Hush, you!” He was about to kiss Jack again when he stopped and sniffed the air a puzzled expression on his face.

“What is it?” asked Jack.

Instead of answering Eric leaned over to peek in the cradle. He reached in and pulled something out. Turning to Jack, he said, “Now don’t freak out, but I think she really will take after me.”

On the palm of his hand, he held a miniature cinnamon roll, perfect and looking like it had just come from the oven.

Jack lifted an eyebrow, sighed, and said, “There goes my diet again.”

Eric laughed. “You never had a hope in hell with two of us making dessert appear.”

Jack chuckled and held Eric in his arms. “Rose will not be impressed.”

“No, probably not, but she’ll just have to get over it. We will have to make her understand she can’t tell anyone about Sylvie.” He shook his head. “We haven’t really told her about me.”

“I’m pretty sure she’s figured it out already. She doesn’t miss much. She asked me the other day if we could have Daddy’s cupcakes and I said maybe you’d bring some home from work. She wanted to know why you didn’t just send them over right now like you sometimes do.”

“Hmmm, I wondered. Oh well. Nothing to be done tonight. I’m tired and I’m on first feeding. Let’s go to bed, sweetheart. We’ll worry about it in the morning.”

Eric and Jack left the nursery, turning down the lights as they went, leaving their new baby daughter to slumber in peace and dream about pies.


End file.
